The Conversation2. ‘And the Chosen One spoke and He said “Behold! My Time and my Kingdom are come and you, wretched peons, will all do my bidding. Or else. And the else will be most unpleasant, I’ll make sure of that. Who the fuck do you think you are, you worthless slave-born crud to contradict, let alone dare oppose me, you scum”. And so on, ad infinitum and ad nauseam.’ Thus informed the itinerant two-legged Empusa the giant ferns of Ding!Ding! The Empusa’s bodyguard, the Bijou Sneak, confirmed every word quoted by her ward. The poor old ferns were, in no particular order, amazed, shocked, appalled, distraught and, verily and utterly, livid. What‘s the world coming to?, they thought. What indeed.

In The Desert2. It’s not so much a case of repeating myself -you know all those wandering vessels and things- as the fact that I keep finding myself in similarly confusing and occasionally inhospitable places. And it’s not that these places are black and white, far from it, but often-times they are of an enhanced variety of gray that well… sort of dulls the wits and temporarily shrivels the soul. Fortunately there are nearly always a few helpful indigenous creatures willing to assist in the getting out of the soup moderately unscathed. Bumba be praised and His lovely Mother even more!

Voyagers. aka. Nothing Left to Explore? Or perhaps we’re sick of exploring and all we want is to go back home, curl up and dribble. The point is that we never seem to get where we want to be. Couldn’t say why. The Cyclops are friendly, the Sea Serpent is on our corner, even the sea itself is reasonably kind. And yet here we are, stuck in the middle of a godawful throng of jokers, fools, psychos and murderers that get away with all sorts of horrors. Bummer.
Myffological Note. The companion SeaSneak is a distant relation of Nure-onna, the famous Japanese snake woman wot likes water.

Walkies2L. I’m truly miffed at not having been able to go with her wherever she was going -it sounded riveting. But she’s promised to tell me all about the place, the climate, the flora and, more newsworthy, the fauna, as soon as she comes back.

Gateway. The stars must be ever so right. They have to; all the other sighs are there: the genocidal psychopaths, the delusional sociopath, the homicidal megalomaniacs, the incompetent imbeciles, the morons-in-high-places, the cretins in charge of lives and deaths, you name it. My only worry is that the Great Napper of R’lyeh will find the prospect on offer far too revolting, even for monster. In which case we’ll have to do with Elon Musk and his worshippers (who are legion, I assure you).

Sunny Fluff Reds. Word to the wise: Remember what is the average fate of mince meat. Let us not be turned into sheep’s meatballs. Or, to paraphrase Mrs. Lovett, shepherd’s pie peppered with actual sheep on top. And even the odd shepherd, you know, since they are as expendable as the sheep when push comes to shove. Keep strong the ties wot bind, comrades. Life is short.

Sweet Yith. The Yithian Chief Librarian has been given a limited reprieve and he’s now allowed to receive occasional visitors in his bijou library. He’s rather chuffed, he is. Bully for him. (The Shoggies think I’m far too soft on that count but…what can I say, m’lud, I have a soft spot for bookish creatures, I do. Shoot me now…)

Sharp Dancers. Happy New Year…not. So, here we are again, dear friends. Once more into a breach that will be as new as a scruffy pair of old boots. If anything will be new about 2025, possibly, it’ll be the quasi-universal official confirmation and ceremonial proscription of outlandish notions and practices such as compassion, generosity, subtlety, moral courage, truth-seeking & telling, impious curiosity, non-Hollywood-sanctioned imagination, creativity other than AI-generated, and the slightest shape of dissent from the All-Parties=One-Party line.
It’ll be lovely, you’ll see. Nobody will disagree with anybody else, everybody will see, think, talk and do as they’re told. Everybody will ear the same jingle of the spheres (aka social media) and sing from the same authorized hymn sheet. True difference will be a thing of an all but forgotten past and will be replaced by the rule of snugly legislated identity politics. Every single soul will “elevate” his/her/its lifestyle according to the sacred diktats of the designated influencer of choice and thus become “iconic”, “vibrant” and “deserving” overnight. And so on…
Still, you know the drill. Resist, bite, bait, wound, be incredibly bothersome, give Them the finger, love your neighbour and Beckett on best you can. Have no truck with bondage, mental or otherwise, and if you can’t beat then, bite them until you teeth fall off.
Have a lovely life and un po’ di mu’. Love, petards and heaps of Shoggoths.
https://music.youtube.com/watch?v=isCh4kCeNYU

Solstice 24. Once more, an all-purpose doodle will have to do for both the Solstice knees-up and the 12th Ash memorial. I’m all over the place and gigantically pooped, thus it makes sense to do things when I can rather than when I’d like to do them or (less importantly, really) when it would be proper. Have a spiffing one, do.

Sulking. As it says on the label. The small fry would like us to come out to play but we say nay because…well, you name it, we got it. The young Moon says “It’s all your fault, you ghastly cunts…”. The GCs in question are The Usual Suspects. May they perish horribly and spend several eternities in repulsively bespoke Sheols.