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
And so another year is gone and another one just gets going. I have no illusions that 2018 will be any better than 2017 since Entropy seems to have the upper hand, right now. Never mind; keep Hope’s smiling face burning bright, you never know. Stay with Mehitabel and stay suborn. So says, in not so many words, the Maiden Without Specific Attributes. Her attendant Redbottle flies concur by misquoting Michel Foucault*: Where there is pressure there is resistance. The Redbottle flies are native to the Uncertain Grids and exceptionally intelligent, unlike our Bluebottle variety. They are strictly open-air creatures and, if by some freak accident, they end up indoors they’ll find their way out pretty damned quick, even if that means drilling a hole on your kitchen wall. (They will send in a repair team of competent and cheerful UltraBrickies, immediately afterwards and free of charge.) They are also rather soppy and very caring and they travel often with the aforesaid wounded spirit, who is chronically in need of any amount of TLC she can get, poor kid.
Happy New Year anyway!
There is laughter because there is nothing to laugh at. Theodor Adorno
A modest example right here:
(*Where there is power, there is resistance.)
Well, they are, aren’t they? Perhaps you don’t mind. I do. Passionately. For those who watch are total shits, plain & simple. I resent being watched by turds. Still, nothing much we can do about it, I dare say, except not mind too-too much and keep the flames of hope burning.
“Of the world as it exists, it is not possible to be enough afraid” Theodor W. Adorno 🙂
Dancing Snakes. A few seconds extra daylight a day keep the Doom&Glooms away. Have a spiffing Winter Solstice, my friends. Have a good wiggle and jiggle around a bonfire, si le cœur vous en dit. Join the Dancing Snake Girls in their mystically carnal boogie-woogie. Drink a wee dram to Helios’ abiding health and speedy return. Burn the effigies of your top ten most hated politicians, transnational CEOs, ”quality” paper editors. Let joy and love into your hearts. Life’s too short to pout & grumble. And listen to the Cthulhu Brothers. They’s good for you:
(This promotion of the peerless CBs is becoming a bit of a fickle tradition around this time of the year. I simply think everybody ought to know about these two splendidly demented Scots; like everybody should know the Two Davids’ produce:
http://medialens.org/ just to ward off the evil beady eye of Meedjadom)
Scribe’s Note. As you can see the Shub-Niggurath has been agitating again (not to say pestering) for an increase in presence in my doodles. So here she is, the ineffably fertile single mum, scowling and sulking in a corner, as it’s her wont and her chief talent. She’s grumbling to the Snakes that when she was a young monster they didn’t have any of these Solstice-Shmolstice nonsense and that never did them any harm. The Snakes, lippy creatures that they are, retorted that in her younger days they didn’t have much of anything in any case and that life must have sucked pond water through a second-hand straw -to paraphrase my good friend Monroe. I love Final Void dialectics. 🙂
21-D. The one (and only, alas) good thing that will come out of the Catalan Christmas Panto is that the PP (Partido Popular) is going to bite the dust something chronic in Catalonia, so Mariano Rajoy’s gonna get a whole load of egg on his ugly face. That would make it almost two things, except for the fact that Santa Inés “I Never Flap” Arrimadas and her merry Ciutadans will take the space vacated by the PP and that premier league charlie, Carles “I Heard The Call” Puigdemon and his Pujoclonic pals. Nature abhors a vacuum, they say. Nature sucks. Me, given half a choice, I’d plum for plump Miquel “I Can Rumba” Iceta, so desperate is the situation. Call me shallow but I think a gay president would be kinda cool, don’t you?
A small thought on Santa Inés Arrimada al Culo del Diablo: disregarding the obvious gaps in sex, appearance and other circumstantial evidence, she so reminds me of Donald “the Pussygrabber” Trump. Confident, articulate, unflustered, says lots of things that are superficially true and, if you don’t dig too deeply, sensible, even appealing. But read the Ciutadans manifesto… The moment this lot is in power down will come, like two tons of hard-baked bricks, Uber, Amazon, Verizon, the TTIP, the traditional corruption and the trilingual indoctrination, so that future generations of Catalans will be able to provide blowjobs in English.
As Goya said, me old muckers: El sueńo de la razón produce monstruos. The sleep of reason begets monsters. Ay que dolor… 🙁
Happy Scene. Here’s a sweet, peaceful family scene, a small spoonful of sugar to coat the throat and shield it from the bitterness and dismay of this incoming Catalan Black Thursday. Remember folks, no matter what further horrors emerge from it, the Shoggoths and their friends still will have picnics, ice cream and the Shub-Niggurath to wind up. The Shoggoths know what is what, what! And have an additional version, too, a sort of dark mirror-image. Por mucho pan & all that, you know.