Gorgs Graphic Souk

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

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.

Picnic2. Another Ides of March has come and gone and I’m still breathing.
We sit, my friends and I, by the river of Babylon, under a cool love moon and a nice basket brimming with the fruits of our labours. We sing rousing subversive songs and we choose to hope that with a little bit of luck sooner or later we’ll see an inimical corpse or two come bobbing by.
We know that hope is just another self-inflicted trap but we also know that: a) at least is our own trap and not one imposed by The Man, b) that we can walk out of it whenever we wish to and c) that us cultivating such outrageous attitudes annoys Elon Musk. That alone makes our day. And night, forsooth!
Easter soon come and with it the spring equinox. Have a lovely one.
Meanwhile have un po’ di fairly arbitrary mu’ and a timeless all-purpose quote.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uqU6Xm4A784
Tradition says that Tiberius as often as he left the Senate-House used to exclaim in Greek, “How ready these men are to be slaves.” Clearly, even he, with his dislike of public freedom, was disgusted at the abject abasement of his creature.
Tacitus. Annals. The reign of Tiberius

Slippery Slope. As I was saying, recently, for the Nth time (Bumba help me but I do repeat myself!…), even the wisest and steadiest of creatures can get a fit of the vapours now and again, when not a proper bout of the ubermegrims, seeing how miraculously crappy things are; and ostensibly getting crappier by the minute. It’s like the chap in Ecclesiastes never tires of reminding us:
For in much wisdom is much grief, And he who increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow.
Mercifully, there always seems to be some good Samaritan or other at hand to check on the despondent soul and administer the traditional “There, there…” and perhaps even a nice hot cup of hot chocolate. Menos da una piedra…

Fierce Beastie. Well, you know what it’s like. You leave the running of things in the hands of imbecile children with delusions of grandeur, far, far too much money and a set of covetous, lily-livered, grovelling, cringing, enslaved minions to back them up and sanction their every move, and you end up with situations so beyond the absurd as to need a brand new word to describe it. The mostriciattoli, poor mites, are on the farthermost side of flabbergasted. I do feel for them, I do.

Landscape2 B&W. It’s summer in the country. It must be just after lunch because the cicadas are going berserk, perhaps trying to scare the heat away. The world smells of dry pine needles and dust and roses. The mushrooms are only days away, a latent treasure-trove of primeval passions and sensual raptures.
This be a eulogy to the almost lost art of mushroom hunting. They who know or have know the delights of such an activity will instantly recognize what I’m talking about.

Island. From the bonny island in the sun where the wild alien tomatoes* roam and the trees blossom all year ‘round, the Family and your truly are wishing you a totally spiffing and riotous AntiValentine day/week/month/whatever.
Us chickens are too effing pooped and despondent to be bothered with the organizing and running of public communal shindigs and such otherwise delicious frivolities. We are going to spend said anti-week with the indigenous veggies and their mates. The Wee Worms will enact a few wormy folk dances and the Shoggies will mix the Martinis. That’ll be the extent of our knees-upping this year. Maybe next time we’ll be back in form, Bumba willing.
PS. Having said that, if you’re cunning enough to find your way to the island on your own steam, and show up unannounced but with a bottle of some nice Cabernet Sauvignon and a bagful of home-made samosas, you’ll be most welcome.
*These be not your average timorous tomatoes. These here be fierce fruits that cannot be coaxed or bullied into your salad. Vegetarians beware.