Dawn. So time went on. And on. And centuries went by followed by millennia and those by aeons. Eventually, after a decent period of time had elapsed, and the bugs and the tardigrades had settled, the Mother of All Frogs decided it was time to have another go at diversity on the planet. So She emerged from Her private singularity and brought forth a couple of tadpoles, just to try and see what would happen. The tadpoles initially were very confused, poor mites. The bugs were delighted; they thought that the tadpoles were dead cute and whattahell, the more the merrier. The tardigrades were not quite so sure. “Well, at least they are not mammals…” they concluded. We wish them all great happiness and prosperity and endless grooviness. Also, better luck, and, above all, a vastly higher degree of soundness of judgement than we evidenced, obviously.

Reptilian Tittle-Tattle. De perdidos, al río. (From lost, to the river -in English, In for a penny, in for a pound.)
That’s how things are these days: crappy beyond belief, as one of the iguanas has rightly appraised. Faced with such massive heap-a-caca, the options aren’t all that many. One can throw in the towel and do away with oneself, in varying degrees of gracefulness, or let oneself die of rage, disgust and boredom. Or a body can decide to carry on regardless. Having survived that long under such in utterly intolerable conditions, one might as well hang around a little longer and see what happens next. The means to take the first option are always available, innit? The river isn’t going anywhere…
Have a splendiferous new week-soon-come and be thankful you’re not a Palestinian, or in Port Au Prince right now, or a First Australian, come to think of it. Or, Bumba forfend, dependent on the NHS demi-gods’ vagaries for your wellbeing.

Tangled Grub. aka Masters of the Universe: The Kingdom and the Power but not the Glory. (Again, For ZBSH. Gone but by no means forgotten)
Long time no rant… Here’s Kabbalist harangue, then.
Driven by the primaeval hungers of Malkhut they have stormed Yesod and there they have built their petrified fastness and constructed their constantly changing but never evolving personae. Snug, smug, compliant, self-sanctioned, fashionable, safe and impenetrable, there they defend their impeccable splendid isolation tooth and claw. Wrapped in the robes of self-willed blindness there they breed and brood. Nothing comes in and nothing but their waste matter ever comes out of that meretricious coop. The flimsiest, most nebulous, tiny thought -let alone a flash glimpse- of Tiferet would fill their polymer-clad brains (or what passes for brains) with terror. So they eat and drink and pontificate their vapid lies and evangelize their fatuous Disneyotic fantasies and look down in scorn and anger (and fear) at anything that might dare hint at a higher something-or-other.
They are the almighty master puppeteers and their very mighty meat puppets; and the merely powerful but still on the alrightnik side of the hierarchy; and the just-about-powerful, desperately scuffling up the fragile, fickle ladder. And the slaves-in-all-but-name, half crazed with their thirst for power and their fear of impotence, ever-willing to do the meat puppets’ bidding in case it brings them even a tiny step up the greasy pole; and the wretched slaves who sell their grandmothers and, often, their own grandchildren, for just a shred of reflected clout.
They are the obscenely rich and the very rich and the simply wealthy and the well off and the nicely comfortable and the not-so-comfortable but determinately aspirational. They are both the lost sheep and the good shepherds. The cattle and the drovers. They are the salt of the Earth and they shall inherit it … until they blow it up to smithereens or they poison it with aerosolized hot air and crushing misery.
Ye are the salt of the earth: but if the salt have lost his savour, wherewith shall it be salted? It is thenceforth good for nothing, but to be cast out, and to be trodden under foot of men.
Matthew 5:13 Meanwhile, back at the reality ranch, the poor wee grub is left wondering what the fuck all this shit has to do with her and her kin and her friends and her neighbours. My heart aches for you, little one.

The Messenger. aka Bleak House. aka. The Shape of Things As They Are, given the astronomical all-pervading levels of sheepishness and laziness. And may Bumba have mercy upon our wretched tired souls.

Non-Euclidean Bug. Belated greetings card for International Women’s Day. Go for it, girls. Give ‘em hell!

Bird and Wraith. Wandering with her familiars in the twilight gardens of the Elusive Zones, Tribulata, the flightless, four-legged Bird of Paradise Misplaced, has been ambushed and buttonholed by a small but perfectly formed nonconformist wraith who claims he is, honest-to-Bumba, genetically related, if very remotely and even more nebulously. The wee sprite, whose name is Bagatelle, is not seeking any worldly gain or advantage, he says, just a spot of pleasant interaction and intelligent conversation. He claims that interaction with other phantasms is, well, kind of flimsy. And that family is family, regardless of how far-flung and blurry the connection might be. Tribulata is not quite convinced by the little phantom’s evidence. The familiars are all for a good old get-together, not to say a merry chin-wag and, ideally, a jolly old riotous tea party. The familiars like tea, bless their furry socks. We wish all the parties involved a maaaaarvelous time. Life is short.