Janus Imp. With some final bits of sound advice, useful reminders and health instructions, Geminina, the merry genus Janus demonette, is sending two of her grandchildren (adopted) out into the big bad world for to do battle against the forces of idiot mendacity, brain-numbing banality and advanced intellectual degradation. The two intrepid youngsters, Blimp and Blossom, are about to board the part-non-Euclidean foxes, Fiddle and Fuddle, who will swifty transport them to the ghastly, perilous domains of mainstream politics, media whorehouses and genocidal killing fields. At a pinch the foxes can act as enforcing muscle were anything/body threaten the welfare of the fledgling nemeses. Also as strategy advisors, beauticians and storytellers. The affiliated tadpoles are still very young and not above a good yarn before bed time. We wish them a totally spiffing time, best of luck and devastating success. Go give Them Hell, kids!

Floaters & Things. aka Leviticus 19.14. The Bible is a funny old thing. Sometimes it makes me think of it as the YouTube of olden days (as well as current times, of course): you can find just about anything and everything in it, from the deepest, most clear-sighted wisdom to the most flagrant lot of crappy excuses to discriminate, oppress, enslave and even exterminate (or smite as the KJV so euphemistically puts it) your enemies, whether real, perceived or merely designated. You’ll find exquisite poetry and crushingly boring lists of dos and don’ts (a good deal of them arbitrary beyond reason or imagination), soul-stirring subtlety and mind-stifling banality. Not to mention utterly deranged visions. Personally I’m pretty much an Ecclesiastes girl. I love that book. (I wish I could go back in time and have tea and a nice long rambling chat with the bloke that wrote it.) Recently, though, I’ve been having a go at Leviticus. It is mostly an unreadable bore wrapped around true gems, like the one quoted by DandyBat. Milton extrapolated beautifully from it when he said They who have put out the people’s eyes reproach them of their blindness. DandyBat is very fond of this most epigrammatic reflection, too. DandyBat may be an obsessive sharp dresser and an opinionated so-and-so but he does know his philosophical onions, he does. We like DandyBat and we always invite him to the best parties and salons and celebratory whathaveyous, in part because of his mordant wit and in part because he always shows up with a retinue of chubby, fluffy and totally cuddly beasties.

Old Iberian & Mates. It is a fact well known to those who take an interest in such matters, that gods -when not downright insane- are a fickle and therefore unpredictable bunch of chancers. Often they seem to behave like spoilt children and now and again like sadistic prats. Occasionally, though, they come out with good ideas that translate into moderately corking events. Here we can see the Mother-Father of all Iberians giving birth to a race that whatever its faults might have been, produced some of the grooviest art in history (see links). The Attendants, midwives of sorts, have mixed feelings about this act of creation: Does S/He really know what S/He’s doing? Will the newly minted race live up to expectations? Will they end up evolving into a gang that votes Se acabó la fiesta? Is there life before death? Should there be at all?

Portrait. What is this all about? Don’t ask us. We were just rolling past a particularly dense spot of the Converging Lines Wilderness when we caught a glimpse of this little scene. We have our theories and conjectures and speculations, of course, but whatever the truth, it was blurred and made fuzzy by the light of the three silvery moons that were also trundling along right before us. However, we strongly suspect that the wee spider is closely related to the spider that taught Robert the Bruce patience, persistence and industrious perversity.

Well Met 2. aka Absent Friends. This is a generic, all-purpose memorial for all the people I’ve lost in the past few years. Life goes on, indeed, but in a somewhat diminished way. Here’s to you all, me old chinas.

Strolling. Here’s to the girl who’s not pretty and not nice and she knows it. She’s not fashionable, nor does she ever intend to be. She’s not on Instagram and she hasn’t got 35,672 friends on FaceFuckingBook. She doesn’t buy stuff from Amazon. She thinks influencers are a mug’s game. She likes to defy the odds. She doesn’t give a toss about mainstream rules and regulations and she laughs at social status. She’s brazen and jovial and light.
So she dons her bowler, grabs her captive balloon and off she goes a strolling and a wandering in the Submerged Secret Woods. Little odd fishes come out of their snug hidey-holes to stare and gape and gossip and giggle. And to toast her shamelessness.
N.B. The captive balloon is a freely and willing captive balloon. In part because, being a sociable beastie, it likes the companionship and in part because untethered it’s apt to float away and get hopelessly lost.

Style is knowing who you are, what you want to say, and not giving a damn.
Gore Vidal

Well Met 1. By the shores of the beautiful Chromatic Lake, in the Valley of Glee, two rambling giant Worms have come across a small (but perfectly formed) haranguing creature, the Radiant Raving Goddess of Righteous Wrath. She haunts the region and its fringes ranting like it’s going out of fashion about this, that and anything else that catches her mood. Occasionally she also does custom diatribes. If you ask her nicely and you suggest a topic she’d really like to sink her teeth in, off she’ll go on a rabbity, rampant tirade that will make your eyeballs itch and peel the skin off your nose. She’s lovely, she is. The giant Worms are thinking of starting up a fan club. If they do, I’ll be its first member, I will.
PS. This here doodle is for Ash, a master ranter if ever there was one. Here’s looking at you, kid!

Napping. There once was an old lady who fell asleep on a peregrine asteroid. She was very, very tired and the transient boulder seemed very genial and very snug, so she squeezed her teddy bear tight, asked her floating minders to keep watch and she drifted into a blissful slumber. And lo! the Mother of All Wise Onions appeared to her in dreams and revealed to her the secrets of how to survive the all-pervading and exponentially increasing mental retardation that has been swamping and drowning world-wide politics ever since, oh, I don’t know… the Bronze Age?, or even before. I can’t wait for the groovy wandering rock to float my way so I, too, can have a mystic amaryllian dream.

Vermicelli. And so He’s off again and the days will start getting shorter and before we know (by mid September, I forecast*) They will start with the Silly Season consumerism barrage of things we should buy/do/believe/love/indulge in/whatever. Never mind. Have a lovely summer solstice and tell the small Italian Worms to stop worrying. He’ll be back soon enough. He always does.
*Did you know that in this our miserable Disunited Kingdom, we have a TV channel entirely devoted to Xmas films from September onwards? Really. I never knew that could be so many crappy films about a seasonal thingummybob that has hardly any meaning any more except for the mercantile aspect. Blimey!

Odd Thoughts. Yes, he has some very strange thoughts. Often verging on the heretical. And so us do, too. Join us.:-)