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.