Sulking. As it says on the label. The small fry would like us to come out to play but we say nay because…well, you name it, we got it. The young Moon says “It’s all your fault, you ghastly cunts…”. The GCs in question are The Usual Suspects. May they perish horribly and spend several eternities in repulsively bespoke Sheols.
Love Moon. And what’s wrong with a spot of soppy fluffiness? The Shubniggureths think that’s well groovy, especially if contrived and managed by the clever GMCA Fox. The Moon herself is rather pleased if a tad confused.
Back From Leng 2. Given half a chance we would have stayed in Leng for ever and a day but we had unfinished business back in the concrete jungle so we went back for a quick punitive sally. And, yes, we did send the tutelary jumbo Shoggoth the requested chicken soup (via Byakhee Express, naturally).
Ghost Bug. Here to remind us of what is what. The brevity and futility of life and also its ineffable beauty. The near-impossibility truly to know another soul. The equivocal, ever-changing nature of “reality” and the utter yummyness of iced coffee. Have a splendid life.
Pink Tadpole. Things impossible to forgive and hideously dangerous to forget.
The tradition of the oppressed teaches us that the “state of emergency” in which we live is no the exception but the rule.
Walter Benjamin
Have a spiffing week. Do.
Angry Ghost. Livid, actually. And with innumerable good reasons for being so.
Vermicelli3. aka A Frivolous Rehashing Homage to Boudou sauvé des eaux. The kindly Red Vermicelli have rescued a peculiar little creature from the riotous waters of the stream that crosses their garden. Ignoring what the beastie might be or where it may come from, they have decided to adopt it on a finders keepers basis. But the well-meaning worms don’t know that the creature, whose name is Rory Sharptail McDuffie, is the spirit guide of and bodyguard to a very rare species of moth that lives in the wilds of Northern Scotland; he ended up in the river of the garden of the Vermicelli owing to a freak accidental encounter between the prevailing winds in that neck of the woods and a stray singularity. The moth will be appearing in a doddle of her own, with her very own heroic tale, soon-soon, inshallah.
Happy Twins. Bosom pals of the girl who’s not pretty and not nice and doesn’t give a toss, the also not pretty and not nice but deliriously bright Gemini Sisters have come to their Orchard of Delights to pick up a few novelty items to further brighten their days. The garden has been exceptionally imaginative, lately, and it has presented the twins with a truly bizarre, but exceedingly cuddly variety of Fish-In-A-Bubble thingummybob. Clever Orchard! Lucky twins! Sometimes life is so sweet…
Sunrise. The Mutated Magic Mushrooms of the woodland fringes sprang up as one and invoked the begetting powers of natural redress for to bring forth a furry avenger. And, lo!, another Warrior Bunny appeared. Ain’t that nice? Let’s face it, a vindicating paladin is much needed in these grisly days of godawful idiocracy and doctrinaire subjugation. For, as the man said:
There must be outlet or there will be explosion- … Or the mentally freezing, or dying, will tighten their prohibitions, and the chill of their censorships will contract, to extinction, our lives, which, without sin, represent matter deprived of motion. Their ideal is Death, or approximate death, warmed over occasionally only enough to fringe with uniform, decorous icicles -from which there will be no escape
Charles Fort. New Lands
Helpful disclaimer. The chronicler of this here happy event is not a Fortean by any stretch of the imagination, but one gets one’s groovy lines where one can gets them, innit?
Woodland Metchik. Here is where we go when things get ghastly beyond endurance. Here are to be found, always, suns and moons and whispering trees and chubby hybrid bunny rabbits and drunken stars. Balm for aching souls.
