Going Walkies. Yes, follow the disobedient fish wot swims against time and tide. It’s the only way to ensure the survival of your soul, otherwise you may grow so accustomed to rank, sadistic stupidity and atrocities-as-spectacle that you’ll end up confusing Gaza with The Great British Bake-Off and believing that Donald Trump has more than one brain cell and Keir Starmer a moral compass. Have a splendiferous life…if you still have one.
Sulking (Prov. 1:16) That’s it really. All is said. But for good measure have this:
What is crooked cannot be made straight,
And what is lacking cannot be numbered.
Ecc. 1:15
And this
For in much wisdom is much grief,
And he who increases knowledge increases sorrow.
Ecc. 1:18
Stay in the shade and have a spiffing weekend.
Well Met 2(1). Having exhausted their capacity to put up with the psychotic godawful mental retardation of current politicians and their mindlessly engineered sociopolitical events in this miserable plane, the merry Reddish Larvae and their chums, the Bijoux Dinos, have decided to migrate to the OtherOtherworld which is nearly as pleasant as the Otherworld but not quite so dicey. On their way there they have come across the Zen Worm and, captivated by its peaceful countenance and modest demeanour (not to mention its Teddy) have invited it to join them in said alternative level of existence. ‘You really don’t want to hang around here much longer, mate’, they say. ‘Why, any time now your poor old Teddy might be forcibly enrolled into the PCC (The Patriotic Cadets Corps) and eventually sent to fight some imaginary evil Russians in some godforsaken corner of the planet. Or worse…’
I can easily guess which way the wise worm will swing. I wish them all all the best and I wish I could go with them.
Solstice ‘25. It’s broiling hot and really there’s no reasons to be cheerful anywhere you look. All the same, have the merriest Solstice you can grab. Build a politically incorrect bonfire in your garden/balcony/common. Jump over it; it’s traditional. Make a burnt offering to the tutelary of your choice (you never know, it might work…)
Stay cool. Life is short.
Contemplating. Just a thought, you know. Not terribly serious but all the same… I mean, who the fuck wants to hang around much longer in the kind of world we have managed to cook up for ourselves, what with the whingeing genocidal maniacs and the psychotic infants in power and the premier league idiots telling one that one’s bodily ailments are all one’s own fault (for failing to pray to baby Jesus or comply with CBT and so on)? Really. Of course the beasties and the flowers totally disagree and still endorse and press for the usual bloody-minded resistance which, they claim, is NOT futile. Oh, well. We’ ll see… Weekend coming up. Have a splendiferous one.
Sunny Dino. Here be a gift wot is not Greek and it’s useful and dead cute into the bargain. The young Dino is very impressed and the flowers & ferns well chuffed. Happy days!
Moonlight Flowers. Who says I can’t do flowers? (Or flae’hs, as Boob-Boom calls them.) Here be proof.
Green City. 78. It’s scary because it sodding is, it being so close to 80 (which is severely scary). It’s interesting for reasons I won’t bore you with. It’s no longer “late middle age”, or “elderly”, or, as the Spanish say “un poquito mayor” (a little bit senior). No. It’s fucking old, like in seriously old. However, and possibly the only good factor of this generally dreary equation, it’s not utterly devoid of a certain je ne sais quoi and even a discreet charm. Also, I have outlived Gaius Octavius, as he was before he mutated into Augustus, by three whole years. So there! (All said & done, I’ve had worse birthdays.)
Fast Friends.
Buscando mis amores
iré por esos montes y riberas,
ni cojeré las flores
ni temeré las fieras
y pasaré los fuertes y fronteras.
San Juan de la Cruz. Canto Espiritual
In search of my loves
I will go over mountains and shores
I will gather no flowers
Nor will fear the wild beasts
And I will go through fortresses and frontiers.
St John of the cross. Spiritual Anthem.
For brother John, who, with with the excuse of religious fervour, wrote some of the most spiffing poetry ever. My own translation. If you don’t approve of it go learn Spanish, by all means.:-)
Mountains. Come, join us for a (very) long weekend in the foothills of this most wonderful, restful and restorative of mountain ranges. You’ll be warmed by the Twin Suns, taken on eldritch guided hikes by the Lurking Teddies, plied with scrumptious food by the Shoggoths, serenaded by tame Byakhees, treated to a unique variety of Tarantella by the intern Shubniggureths (on kindly loan by their Ineffable Mother) and generally spoiled rotten by the Hovering Things. Forget, be it only for a few days, that these days genocides are a public spectacle that can be seen on TV, and beyond implausible excuses are sought, found and pushed by the genociders and their minions and nobody says boo. Life is short.
