Gorgs Graphic Souk

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.Â Â Â Â  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 cÅ“ur 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:

http://www.cthulhubrothers.co.uk/MP3s/Dance_With_the_Cthulhu_Brothers.mp3

https://cthulhubrothers.bandcamp.com/track/the-archer

(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 sueÅ„o 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.

will always be with us. Alas.

Mother Bear. It’s mainstream meeja- sanctioned, ergo hallowed, ergo true: everything bad that happens, to anybody, anywhere, it’s Russia/Putin’s fault. Trump wins the election? The Catalans are behaving like a bunch of prats? Italy’s out of the World Cup? It’s raining? It’s not raining? Your wife’s left you? Blame Russia and that Devil in the Kremlin. Easy peasy. It would seem that the self-styled free world’s reserves of hypocrisy and foolishness are as plentiful as they are generously accessible to anybody who wants some. All you have to do is go with the flow. So the Spirit of Russia has come to have a good bitch with her totem and old chum, the MotherBear of All Russias (a BearGon by affiliation), to unburden herself and to get some moral support. And tea & cake, of course. The Cubs are most sympathetic and the Additional Fuzzies moderately disconcerted at the said human fatuousness. The Proto-Shoggoth that dwells in the foliage of the Twofold Tree of Life thinks that the Russian Soul shouldn’t worry too much as it all might come out in the wash anyways, when we blow ourselves to smithereens and the bugs take over the evolutionary circus. The Proto-Shoggoth is a congenital optimist.

More Gazins (@Dawn and @Noon). It’s not often that I indulge in repetitions and variations on a theme but now and then I do treat myself to a colour and/or a B&W version of a given subject. This time I’m going the whole hog: from an originally B&W image, lo! there springs a full quartet. I simply could NOT resist the urge of going through the whole 24 hours sequence, m’lud, what can I say? Well, you know, Por mucho pan nunca mal año, they say. NB. Gazing@Dusk soooon come.

Update 12/12/17 Gazing@Dusk. So it comes full circle and don Salvatore has the last word:

Ognuno sta solo sul cuor della terra

traffitto da un raggio di sole:

ed í¨ subito sera

Salvatore Quasimodo

PachyMamma. Dreaming the Ancestors. The young elephant has been meditating on the Great Ancestress, the PachyMamma, goddess custodian of all things pachyderm and by extension of all things bulky -me included. He recalls the olden days and evokes sadly the time when elephants lost the ability to fly “Must have been Entropy’s doing, she being the ultimate Great Mother. She who in the end will devour even the greatest of great mothers. And fathers. And all their progeny in between., he thinks. NB. Although the anniversary proper is not till next week, this is the yearly Ash Memorial Doodle. These days I can never be sure when (or even if) I’ll be able to do something, much less meet deadlines, so carpe diem is my motto or, in this case, carpe squiggle. Here’s to you, old chum. I hope you’re giving all the other particles a really hard time. XXX

FoxyBusiness. This is for Maria Clara, aka Kay. Because I said I would. Hope you like him, or her, cherie. It is a true likeness of a real fox cub wot I fond fast asleep on my bedroom window sill one spring afternoon. 2017 has been an excellent year for foxes in my garden. Lots of them, lots of cubs. They use my garden like it was their private fiefdom. And very welcome they are to it, too.

Florence. Meet Florence, twin sister to the Gothette of a few weeks ago. Unlike the Wromantic Miss, this one one talks a lot. And loud. And forcefully. Hence the ShoggieGuards. They think she needs keeping an eye on, owing to her big mouth and her proclivity for telling things as she sees fit, and she being only 5’3. and slightly built.

Gazing B&W. “Make me one with the night., she demanded. So they did. Her jaw’s still lingering somewhere in the vicinity of her knees. 🙂

The Musrooms Lament aka Young Saurian. The Wild Mushrooms have come to lodge a complaint with the youngest of the Guardians of the Forest Primaeval: rains are late and poor, their habitat is being turned into golf courses, the art of non-destructive mushroom hunting is being lost, etc. The Crusty Emissary to the Powers of Official Nonsense is trying to divert the attention of the young caretaker with the usual warping tactics. Fortunately the young custodian is nobody’s fool.      Ah, this Russia hysteria… Will it ever end? It’s driving me up the sodding wall. Even El Paí­s is at it with a vengeance, now. Not that I expected El Paí­s to be any better than the fucking Guardian but at least it has a regular Forges cartoon. Oh well, Mehitabel rules. Always. She must. Meanwhile, here, have Forges’ latest:

Kindly translation for non-Spanish-speaking peasants:

-What’s for dinner?

–Estelada croquettes.

-Again!?

-He…They’re still on offer.

Birth Day in Honduras. A riotous, joyful scene at the Inn of the Nine Boons, in the Southern Borderlands. The Siamese Jaguar Twins are about to give birth to yet another batch of chubby Hippopoids, much to their cousins’ delight. The parturition is only relatively painful but the Twins are natural born drama queens and simply love to make a great fuss and as much noise as their little lungs will permit.   This is for my mate Mario, who hails from Honduras and from whose heritage I’ve borrowed (and done things to) these here chappies. The originals that so tickled my imagination and inspired this can be seen at the Maya ruins of Copan. And so much for Cultural Appropriation! 🙂 NB. I must remember to have a go/rant at this latest folly, Cultural Appropriation and its “discontents”. Ah, me. The smaller and more united and homogeneous and powerful the 1% becomes, the more the 99% of slaves beneath their fascist boot become fragmented and waste their limited energies in fighting amongst themselves. Robert Hughes, you were a sodding prophet, you were!.  (See: Culture of Complaint. Oxford University Press. 1993)