2012 has been a pretty crappy year. Physical pain ratings: off the scale. My new computer malfunctioned repeatedly. World (social, political and economic) scene: below Mariana Trench levels. And a good friend of mine has just gone and died. Massive bummer. But a few good things have happened. I ended up with two computers. The creative flow has been fairly steady. And I had a spontaneous-unrehearsed offer from a publisher for my wee Tarot deck. So, no, I will not jump into the Thames yet. Also, I got myself an e-reader wot came preloaded with a most primitive drawing tool. It was … interesting to experiment with it. Here be, then, a few samples (put, naturally, through the refining mill of Flash). Also also, the fact that it has been a vomit-inducing year for me doesn’t exclude the wish for a better one for me and my mates. Including the one that died. Perhaps he’ll be spared further horrors to come. Bon voyage, Ash-baby. I’ll miss you. Update 29/12/10 More PrimitiveDevice-Flash stuff. Update 03/02/13 The official po’m for illustration No. 4, Travellers, can now be read in it’s full inglory on the poetry section, Wilfred & The Shell-Shocked.
Here’s the good news: one of the Shub-Niggurath’s Thousand Young decided to strike out on its own, to travel and see the Void. OK, so she’s still has 999 left to get rid of. But it’ a beginning, innit? Here’s the first two installments of the story of the intrepid youngster, then. Update 28/12/12 Waiting for Part III to gel together, here’s something completely different. The tireless protoplasmic dears have had another go at soap opera. Knowing that they’re really not very good at it. Heroic, I call this attitude. The earstwhile budding director call is something pretty rude. Update 07/01/13 And the ship sails on and the saga continues… Update 23/01/13 And continues. And then stops for a wee while. I need to tidy up my storyline, wot seems to be growing out of any reasonable boundaries. Quick Update 25/01/13 Just another of those “semi-primitive” thinggies. I thought I’d start a new series called Eldritch Tourism, or something.
And so it came to pass that on the fifth year of the Great Debacle not a single one of those truly responsible for it had been held responsible (let alone punished for it), except by some of us plebs and the divine Stacy Herbert. But we don’t count because we are …well, plebs, innit. So it was up to the Rubbery Darlings to show the True Way, as usual. May Bumba shower them with an infinite ammount of Smarties! Update 06/11/12 Don’t ask me why but I feel in a pre-New Year mood. Makes no sense, really, since I don’t expect the next year to be any better that this dying one. Especially if Romney wins the election. And as for my health…don’t get me started. Still, I feel in a festive mood. So here is a pre New Year card. The two dancing girls have strayed from a funky land made up of ancient Greece, Australia and somewhere in Africa. ??? And look-see, my first attempt at a really repulsive monster: The Dread EggMonster of Blingo! The Shoggies have set their hearts on winding him up -as well as “corrupting” his poor wee slaves with drugs, sprits and fresh fruit. Please note that there seems to be some interesting chemistry going on between the red slave and Edwina (who’s coming along very nicely, recently). And, dare I say it?, a hint of a rapprochement between the Shub-Niggurath and the Shoggies. The Shubby hates the EggMonster even more that she hates the Shoggoths, and she’s delighted at his shock, awe and irritation. Besides, she does have a closet admiration for the rubbery darlings. She’s always respected their gumption and their bloody-minded courage. Mind you, she’d sooner have another 1,000 Young rather than admit to it, but there you have it. It’s there. So…who knows? Not that the Shoggies are all that ready to forgive and forget. They weren’t born yesterday, you know. Update 14/11/12 To celebrate this wonderful epidemic of general strikes all over wretched Europe (well done, Greece, for starting the trend!) and to remember a man who nobody seems to remember anymore (but I do and so so the Shoggies…), here’s my latest offering. Keep trucking, señor Juez! Update 04/12/12 It’s been a rough year for the poor old Black Goat of the Woods with a Thousand Young. First there was the unprecedented success of her erstwhile slaves, the Shoggoths, in discriminating and refined circles (like Flickr, for instance). Then all her attempts at getting rid of some of her supernumeray Young through placements and internships failed miserably (even Azathoth packed his lot back to sender for uncommonly bad behaviour). And lately she attended a party thrown by the splendid GorgoMormo and she…actually enjoyed herself! Shock! Horror! What’s the Final Void coming to? Still, one wee piece of good news: one of her Young has decided to strike out on its own. But that is another story. Update 08/12/12 Just a little “filler”. Once in a blue moon I do something with the dread word Xmas in it. Just to express what I think of the whole dread thing. This is one of those somethings. Not my best, but I quite like the rabbid bunny. And the Komodo dragon. He looks very happy. So would I, if my dreams came true…
Well, right now feels more like diying, but the weather holds fairly decent. I’ve seen worse, I’m sure. To make up for all the shit wot’s going down, the Beastiary’s keeping quite healthy. Here be a latest version of the one & only illustration to my short account of How I Met the Shoggoths (see Fireside Yarns page), and the other two…fuck knows where they come from. I’m not sure I was even there, m’lud. If I was I must heve been sleeping. I rest my case. Update 16/09/12 Some more stuff dug out from the carboniferous depths of my hard drive. It started as a single fish-witch and somewhere along the way sprouted a twin. So now I have ended up with two water enchantresses, travelling up & down the world’s watery ways, doing their fishy watery stuff, in their splendidly snug and well-appointed semi-organic witchy boats. They are very kind to small scaly creatures, especially the ones in distress (real, perceived or simply feigned). The said scaly organisms often take advantage of this, and use the fact that they are small and often helpless-looking (not to mention cute), to hitch rides and get free drinks on the wonderboats. The boats are slightly miffed at this unecessary largesse but the beldames don’t mind at all. It’ll be a cold day in Hell before the supplies of cabernet sauvignon give over. Update 01/10/12 Just a wee vignette of the Animal Shenanigans type. All true, you know… Update 03/10/12 And to round this post, a wee item for the family album. It was long overdue, I dare say.
Don’t get me wrong. Knowledge is a beautiful thing, no question. It’s just that sometimes, the more I know, the more I loose the will to live. Still, one must carry on, do or die, in any kind of weather. It so annoys “them”… So, this one is: 1) for myself, to remind me of certain things, 2) for Norman “Stormy Normy” Finklestein, who keeps me sane and entertained, and whose new book is called, coincidentally, Knowing Too Much. Isn’t synchronicity wonderful? Useless, as far as I can tell, but groovy all the same. Go get ’em, Norman! PS. The second line of the wee po’m Terry (the Chav Penguin) is declaiming is a tribute to Kenneth Williams and Round the Horne. Cheers! Update 04/08/12 ‘ere, ‘ave a sneak “privada” (as the divine Kenneth would say) of the forthcoming Shogglympiad. Sumo rules! Update 08/08/12 The rubbery darlings, always ready to offer an alternative to most human schemes, arrangements and structures, came out with a brilliant plan of their own to combat those old Olympic blues: Have a Shogglympiad instead, they said. And so we did. Spikky and The Rats sponsored the nicking of the Smarties, ice cream and the best cabernet sauvignon we could get hold of. Wee Duncan was allowed to strut around, club in hand, looking totally non-dangerous (but he doesn’t know that and you mustn’t tell him). Spot of the Antarctic, “Flash” Harry the Decadent Worm and Jake the Lapsed Golem were given the artistic direction and a very job they’ve done, too. I don’t know how they managed, but they sweet-talked the Shub-Niggurath into lending a few of her unruly offspring to produce the Fashionable Pop Group de rigueur, which is why she’s been invited to the gaudeamus. Not that she needed much persuading, as she’s always anxious to offload any amount of her all too numerous Young to anyone who’ll have them. Besides, as we well know, she likes nothing better than being invited to parties and then squatting there in some corner looking morose and despondent. In fact most creatures have been made welcome. In the true Riotous-Party spirit of the original Greek Games, old grudges have been put aside (some only temporarily, granted) and lo and behold, even the Yithian Chief Librarian has been given compassionate leave from his detention in the Galactic Security Unit in Betelgeuse and allowed to attend. And look, see! The Deep Ones are slowly coming out of their solipsistic shell. They will regale the audience with a most wondrous display of like totally unsynchronized swimming. And the Mi-Go will scorch the earholes of any politico unwise enough to eavesdrop. And Gorecho will do the same with his ultra-rude songs, intended to cause maximum offense. And if you think that the Snails are not quite the ticket for the job of usherettes, I’ll say that nobody’s in a hurry. This shindig is likely to run for months and there’ll be endless encores, repeats and reiterations, I’ll wager. But enough PR! Sit down and enjoy the show. Entry is free and you also get a goody bag, courtesy of the Saintly Farting Nuns of Bilbao, full of esoteric stuff, like digital copies of the Necronomicon, Mi-Go Especial Beauty Lotion and bits of the thigh bone of St. Claw’d of Cappadocia (a very holy saint worshipped by The Lobsters and said to cure most social diseases, like paranoia, intransigence and an specious belief in the Third Way). Cheers! Updates 17/08/12 I. Of all the brain-fried, lily-liver, cowardly weapons loved by macho-posturing sissies, drones rank pretty high with me and the rubbery darlings. Here’s what we’d like to do to/with them. II. And here’s what Ol’ One-In-All-And-All-In-One whispers to me on moonless nights, when the caffard hits the roof. Sometimes it almost makes sense, I swear. Update 21/08/12 I only heard the news yesterday. Pulmonary complications, they say. No surprise there; he was probably chocking on disgust and contemp for what the world has become and is becoming, poor chappie. Well, at least he’ll be spared further horrors to come, but today I feel like a serial orphan. First Howard Zinn, then, a few weeks before Gore, Alexander Cockburn, and now him, the goldenest of my golden boys. Ah, me! Who’s next, I dread to think? I will not think. I shall sit and sulk and mourn his passing, that last scion of the rarest of species; the only aristo I never resented; my brother in rants. One of the main pillars of my sanity. Fare thee well, possum. I’ll miss you horribly but…me quedan tus palabras. PS. The Shoggoths are pretty pissed off, too. They don’t see any need for dying. They think it’s a mug’s game. It’s all very well for them to think so, though. They don’t die, do they? They just subsume into each other, or change into something else, innit?
… Unlike the kind pushed by TurboCapitalism and its minion, the IMF. Look-see, The Family grows in a non-profit, non-threatening & recreational sort of way and nobody’s got to buy into it if they don’t want to. Meet the Squirtle. A distant relative of the Mystical Turtle (featured), it is, as the name indicates, a cross between a squirrel and a turtle. It lives in one of the many borderline territories -or Soft Places, as Neil Gaiman calls them- surrounding the merry old Plateau of Leng and the Cold Waste. A vastly powerful creature, it also suffers from a congenitally kind heart and a compulsively helpful nature. It gets on with almost everybody in the barrio, in part because nobody dares mess with it; if threatened or irritated beyond endurance, the Squirtle can be a terror. Soft it may be but not dumb. Which doesn’t stop the Shantak birds from pushing their luck when it comes to fucking off to Nyarlathotep’s birthday party and leaving the Squirtle to babysit. Then again, we all know the Shantaks are born chancers, do we not? Update 26/06/12 A break from the Mining Co. It’s Elementary Particles again! Them and their impossible behaviour wot has driven more than one scientist to the bottle. The Observer in the picture has since: 1) resigned, 2) requested political asylum in my cellar (claims the Shoggoths are far, far more tractable) and 3) taken up bird-watching. It’s recovering fine. Slowly but steadily. Update 06/07/12 And here’s some sound advice from Primus. Update 07/07/12 And here’s my tribute to the CERN lot, who knowing they’re fighting a loosing battle, they still fight on. Mind you, I’m sure they’re having a whale of a time doing it. And they’re getting paid for it! Still, I raise my cup to them. And to the wee particles, naturally… Update 11/07/12 I’ve been meaning to do something for Greece and the Greeks. Here it is. Kalispera, folks. Wake up, smell the rot and kick some asses. The right ones, please… Update 16/07/12 And so we come full circle. The Family has a new member. The Errant, or Lapsed Golem. He was made by a slightly dyslexic and highly eccentric rabbi who lives just off the Mile End Rd. An excellent conceptual Kabbalist, he’s nevertheless a bit erratic when it comes to practicalities, so instead of a mouth, he gave his Golem a nose. To cut the story short, all that alephed scroll sticking in & out, got up the poor creature’s nose, pardon the pun. Also, one murky dawn, when he had been sent off to fetch some bagels from the all-night bakery in Brick Lane, he met a bunch of carousing Shoggoths on their way back from visiting some friends who inhabit the Forgotten Places under Liverpool St. Station. They introduced the oversized clay chappie to Emiliano, the Rats and bacon butties, and, as the saying goes, the rest is history. The dyslexic rabbi’s still waiting for his bagels…
Families. Love them or leave them, but they’re hard to ignore, innit? That’s what both Wilbur Whateley and the ineffable Shub-Niggurath think at any rate. Here we see young Wilbur a-calling his kith & kin to partake of an evening repast, which may or may not include the odd Alderney cow. And behold! the Shub-Niggurath and some of her many-many-many-many offspring. She’s always desperate to get rid of as many of them as possible, for she has far too many, and she’s forever trying to find placements and/or internships for them, but they are all so badly behaved that they are generally packed back to her before long. Even those who found jobs as blasphemous flute players to the idiot Azathoth didn’t last long and that says all about the little darlings, for good old Az is not only an idiot god but also dumb and DEAF. Here’s to them. Cheers, kids! Update 01/06/12 The newly-named Gorgonic-Lovecraftian Mining Co. continues to extract the ore. Here be the latest produce. The second one is for my friend Helene. Update 10/06/12 Here, have a couple of Sparts. Salut.
Well, I like mine, anyways. I’ve been re-reading some HPL I hadn’t read in aeons and I find myself enjoying it as much as ever. Just finished The Dream Quest of Unknown Kadath, which has had the effect of materializing two new members of the Family. Here they be. Behold the ‘Orrid Toad-Like Moon-Creatures -who actually come from and live in the groovy Plateau of Leng, and two of the Shub-Niggurath many Thousand Young. These two have been sent to Leng to perfect their Hideously Blasphemous Flute technique, purportedly under the tutelage and instruction of the said Moon-Creeps. Unfortunately the Moon Toadies have a tendency to spend nearly all of their time bitching and picking fights amongst themselves, and when they’re not doing this, they spend hours boasting to one another about fights they’ve picked with some other creatures/beings/entities/whathaveyous. So the young Shub-Niggureths are not learning shit or perfecting nada de nada. But they are having a wonderful time hunting stray dreamers and hanging them to dry from the upper railings of the Yuff Hostel where they’re stopping. Isn’t the Great Void simply the place to be? Update 16/04/12 The Shoggoths were restless, last night… So they decided to put on one of their delightful historical tableaux vivants for everybody’s benefit and instruction. Recently we have been reading Fernando García de Cortázar’s Los mitos de la historia de España. The rubbery darlings were much moved by and taken with the periodically recurring bouts of expulsions from the territories of peoples, groups and individuals that this or that government didn’t like. They chose the exile of the Jesuits because nobody ever seems to remember them and because they (the Js) seemed to be unrepentant smokers. Nothing if not deep, my Shoggies… Update 17/05/12 Ah bliss! I live again..again. My 15-months old computer conked out for the second time since I bought it. I was computerless for nearly 4 weeks and I nearly went mad. To distract myself from this incipient derangement I rehabilitated my older machine, who, like the Great Cthulhu, was not dead but merely sleeping in the cellar. And now I have two beasties! Never again will I be left machineless, I swear on the Shoggoths pseudopods. Anyways, here be the latest batch of Lovecraftian loony tunes -this time all devoted to the adorable Mi-Go, plus a Particle Bonus.The Mi-Go series is called The Vermont Triptyc, or Three Vermont Moons. The first one pertains to the (all too brief) adolescent life of the Mi-Go. Like adolescents all over the galaxies, they become quite unruly and prone to mischief, but they also look truly pretty, with their prawn bodies and butterfly wings. They frequently escape vigilance and off they go a-fluttering and a-gamboling in the moonligth, scaring the living shits out of the locals -both gentry and peasants alike. The second sheds some light on the allegedly malevolent activities on the crustifungoid darlings and their relations with the natives. The Mi-Go were only trying to help and bring some cheer into the natives’ drab, wretched lives. Ah, uncomprehendid sods! They’ll never know what they missed. (The natives, that is.) The third goes some way into explaining these “unexplained vanishings” of some of the aforementioned locals who “got too close” to the Mi-Go. The fact is that the “disappeared” were mostly farmer’s wives. Having been totally sold to the (extra-curricular) improvement plan proposed by our enterprising Zippy, once they returned from Yuggoth, they squarely refused to go back to their drudgy lives, crummy old husbands and sullen inbread children, and took up instead with some handsome humanoid alien they met at some social on Yuggoth, or they became particle scientists and landed wonderfully exciting and well paid jobs at CERN. Next post: A Dunwich Tea Party. Stay groovy.
13/02/12 Here be my Anti-Valentine for 2012. Also my very own antidote to all the Jubilee Jingoism crap and kitsch wot lay in wait. Ah...the horror...the horror... Still, as you can see the Shoggies and all the other Beasties have embraced Republicanism wholeheartedly, bless their woolen socks and webbed feet. Happy Republique Universelle Day, folks! Update 25/02/12 I have done something I'd never thought I'd be capable of doing. I've been to see an acupuncturist! Which took some doing, because I'm highly needlephobic. But the pain was driving me bonkers and I was beginning to be unable to do fuck all. So I grabbed the torito by the cuernos, swallowed my phobia and off I went. And would you believe it? It was a doddle! I didn't even feel the needles going in. And now I feel massively proud of myself for being so brave (Ha!) and my back sings praises to my courage and my acupuncturist's skill. The pain is by no means gone, but instead of screaming like a banshee from dawn to dusk now seems quite content to mutter dark mutterings all day long and grumble things like "I'm still here..." Me, I can't wait for the next sesssion. Meanwhile, the Rubbery Darlings insisted I try their version of that ancient therapy. For free, gratis and in the comfort of my own home. Oh dear. I'm such a fool....Update 28/02/12 Meet the Deep Ones. It was high time I devoted some energy to them, don't you agree? The Mythos graphic family groweth. Wheeeee! I attach also a link to the best double spoof I've come across in years. After all it was this wot triggered the desire to produce some Deep Ones. H.P. Lovecraft buffs ... enjoy! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6wU0GwyQKSE&feature=related
Update.07/03/12 The series Secrets & Lives lives! Here be proof. Also, here be new creechas. Met the Prairie Doggies. I've been working on this one for a bit; and I still like to send it to Liz Bonnin, who inspired it. Update 11/03/12 We had visitors, recently. The divine PaulDirac O'Higgins-Stein, his minder, the Snake from Special Circumstances, and his pals Miska and Alexia. The idea was to have a picnic in the garden but as it pissed down all bloody day, we decided to have an indoor gaudeamus. Which in the case of Norman and Alexia wasn't quite so gaudy, as thy decided to tackle Manuel Azaña's Memoirs and thus ended up weeping like professional mourners at a very well paid funeral. They should have stuck to some good ol' don Arturín, like the rest of us. (See, even Cassius' portrait was seized by the PerezRevertian atmosphere and promptly developed the canonical costume.) Or, like the ever wise Primus, meditae on a favourite theme -in his case, Smarties. PS. Ethel the 'Edge'Og has temporarily fallen out with the Cat, so she refused to come in and spent the rest of the afternoon glowering at all & sundry thru' the window. Everybody found very easy to ignore her except sweet, kind PaulD, who's a major league softie -that's why he always travels under the protection of Special Circs., of course. Update 14/03/12 The Shoggies have taken up Spanish poetry, lately, and I'm delighted, that goes without saying. They go around the living room reciting the most gorgeous "romances" and exquisite bits of the Eglogas of Garcilaso de la Vega, in their funny, gurgly-bubbly voices. Groovyness is ours. They also kindly volunteered to enact one of my old-time favourites. Here be proof.
15/12/11 Two weeks only to the end of this year, thank Bumba. And a mere twelve months only to the end of next one. I can’t wait to see the back of 2012, with its impending horrors. Like the flapping (a more accurate adjective than “flipping”) Olympic games just down the road from where I live, and the Jubilee hysteria all over the country, to mention but two. Stil, I’m not going to go into one, right now. 2011 has been a year of mixed…whatevers. I daren’t speak of blessings, see. The Shoggoths are thriving and may soon have their own book, if I get my shit together, finally. The other Animals are doing well, too. The Wee Worms have sprouted a variety, or a mutation: The Very Slightly Evolved Semi-Podded Kin. You can see two of them in the picture. The pic itself is called The Ambassadors II because I’m still working on The Ambassadors I, a wee tribute to that darling hardy perennnial of mine, Iain M. Banks. Me…I’m OK now. I had a Big Health Scare but it seems to be over, for the time being. Ought to teach me not to get so fucking complacent. In theory. Update 01/01/12 Happy New Year, then, in spite of the bad omens. And (por mucho pan nunca mal año…) a genuine pic of the state of my living room “the morning after” the party. Still standing: (on a stool) Rosie, shocked at the state of the Celestial sardine and trying to protect the little Squid, who’s obviously been corrupted by Emiliano’s antics, Spot of the Anctartic -always the totally cool dude, his Worm pal (just about) and, technically, Emiliano. Not for long, I think… (giggle). Update 01/02/12 It’s nice to see I’m still alive, if a tad catatonic. The doodles trickle still and that’s good. For me anyways. Here are the two latest. The b&w one is for several Spanish poets who have, somehow, helped in these crappy Latter Days. The garish one of for Arturo Perez-Reverte, whose short weekly articles/rants for a Spanish weekend paper I’ve recently “discovered”. The plot is, in a nutshell: The central heating breaks down in the middle of winter. Next thing he knows is that his living room is full of..Penguins!!! Yes, that’s why I like the guy. At his age, he’s still capable of infiltrating this kind of sillyness in otherwise perfectly serious diatribes. Bless his angry socks… Late Update. 13/02/12 A few weeks ago the best bar (Bar Prize) in the best barrio (St. Antoni) in the best city (Barcelona) in the best country in th world (Spain) (according to its owner Xavi -the best man in the universe accoding to me), turned 20. Under Xavi’s peerless, inefable hand, that is. Here’s my tribute to him and his work/baby. Happy birthday darling Prize.