Obfuscation. And how much worse have things got since the little bastard said that, 20 years ago. And how much worse will they get! The New Realities, the New (Sub?)Normals, the New Norms -that change almost from one month to the next, the New Catechisms, the New Rights and the New Duties, the New Friends and the Newly minted Enemies… And the old, the very, very old song. The Siren’s Song that has a thousand masks and one single face. Like the famous Holywood chocolates: twelve flavours, one taste.
Have a splendid week…if you can.

Phantoms. Yes, they float indeed. Sometimes with great difficulty. But they persist. And so do we.

Faces2. Thoughts can, sometimes, with a bit of luck and the right conditions (and sometimes the wrong ones, alas), become actions. Let us think the correct ones and see what happens. The tide seems to be turning and although toothless and probably ephemeral it’s better than the proverbial wet kipper.
PS. Manolito, the Hardy Perennial Alien, has temporarily emerged from his anchorite retreat to endorse and encourage the two little Croydonian fellows in their endeavour. He’s aided and abated by the Perpetual Peon wielding the Sacred Crikkitt Bat for good measure. Have a spiffing week.

Crumpled. No comment necessary. As for the rant…I’ve nothing to say that hasn’t been said already, often better than I could say it. Not that many people seem to be listening or even giving a toss, worse luck. I do have a couple of thoughts hatched out of this whole horrid business but I don’t feel like uploading them today. Perhaps later, in a couple of days, when I feel less wobbly.
Have a good rest of the week and spare a thought for the victims of all the ghastly lies that politicians and their enslaved minions, the MSM, keep on feeding us, relentlessly and ruthlessly.

Squiggly Garden. And so another birthday looms, descends and pouff! it’s gone. (77 is not a boring number but it’s perilously close to 80.) The Family insists that I have a good one but the prevailing winds are not auspicious and the atmospheric conditions are pretty crappy. Too many bad news personal and political. Too much stupidity in the air and too many deaths or impending deaths all around. Still, a girl tries, doesn’t she? Be it only to please my wee monsters.

Boo3. A slightly belated April’s Fool doodah. For all the ghastly genocidal clowns wot rule this crappy Grand Guignol and their gruesome jokes that leave thousands and thousands of dead innocents behind, from Gaza to the Outback. May you all get shingles.

Hostiles. I hate you. I hate you more. You are green. You are blue. You are different. No, you are. You eat animals. You are a sodding vegetarian. You worship the wrong god. It’s the right god, it’s you that is wrong. I’m right. You’re wrong. You speak funny. You talk rubbish…
The list goes on. It’s endless. Is repetitive and static and stupid and brain-petrifying and criminally tedious and it goes nowhere except to the bottomless pit via a downward spiral of doom.
Come ye bugs and tardigrades and inherit a planet gloriously void of crack-brained WeThePeoples wot tolerate Netanyahus and Bravermans and Musks and Bezoes and Blair Witches and Bojos and Abascals. All the infinite variety of comedians, dangerous clowns that will bring about ArmaFuckingGeddon whilst repeating, like dumb zombies: “Capitalism is the Way, the only Way, the Holy Way!”.
And: “Capitalism has lifted thousands of people out of poverty!” (but never, ever admitting to the hundreds of thousands that it has plunged into abject destitution..).
They will bleat: “Repent, oh sinners, and embrace the true Doctrine…or else!” (Whatsoever the doctrine might be, in whichever colour it might bedeck itself, no matter how implausible its gospel…).
They will shriek loathsome metaphors like: “Israel has a right to defend itself!” which is shorthand for “We shan’t stop until the last Palestinian is dead or exiled!” (But preferably dead, for the dead don’t come back to demand accounts, reparations or, god forbid, a place to love and live a decent life.)
They will throw wobblies worth of a spoilt infant and demand more tanks, more drones, more money, more flattery, more luuuurve, more…more…more…
They will throw their bloodstained hands high up in the air and claim that their very existence is under threat and call it the “crisis of masculinity” and they will use this as an excuse to go out and murder a few more women to reassert their god-given privilege.
And so on…and on…and on…
Dearie me.

Lone Trees. The lone trees in the lonely wood on the free-floating itinerant islet are charmed by the slow, stately passage of a school of wandering flying sardines. “Don’t leave! Stay! Bide here a while and play with us and have tea!” they plead. But the celestial fish are restless and cannot stop. Theirs is a mysterious itinerary and the reason they follow it is not revealed even to them. They must go where their unknown impulse takes them, poor buggers. The trees are desolate, their island also following an inscrutable course marked by fuck knows who or what, let alone why. See, not all is always fluffy and merry in the Uncertain Zones. There’s also a moderate deal of heartbreak. Ah, well…

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.