(Late) Season Greetings. Of course, given the current trend of world management the chances of 2024 being a tolerably good year, let alone a happy one, are as thin as cat’s ear but hey! who cares? Stay with Mehitabel and keep on Becketting on best you can. Resit, bite, annoy, be “difficult” and so on. You know the drill. Love, fangs and muffins.
Sol Solet (Solstice 2023). This will have to do as both the customary Solstice greetings and the 11th Ash Memorial. I’m too cold and pooped and dispirited for discrete productions. Have a good one. Ash, I still miss you but no longer mourn you. Perhaps you’re lucky that you’re missing the colossal amount of crap we’ve been getting in these past 11 years. More power to your emancipated particles, me old china! XXX
Organized Chaos. Unhappy Anniversaries. (A little bit late but as the saying goes…)
There’s chaos and then there’s chaos. There’s one kind of chaos that brings release and joy and renewal. The chaos They bring, unfailingly brings mindless, gratuitous destruction, all-round misery and moronic decay. And dreadfully predictable (perchance prearranged?) consequences. What’s worse, it’s hailed by some as progress. Oh, well. Let’s Beckett on best we can, shall we…
Merry Obituary. aka. Speaking Ill of the Dead
Sometimes life is sweet. And sometimes it’s extra sweet. This past few days for example. Not only we’ve had a couple of high-end politicians giving a diplomatic finger of sorts to that asshole Netanyahu -and in these days of craven subservience a modest, suave finger counts for a hell of a lot- but my Über Bête Noire, that deranged mass exterminator, demented politicians-whisperer, granddaddy of RealCrapPolitik, Henry Kissinger has finally kicked the bucket. And as the two Non-Euclidean dancing damsels say, not a fucking minute too soon. Of course don Pedrito and the Belgian guy’s gestures will have no great consequences other than irritate the living shits out of the ghastly N-Creature, but as the Spaniards say, Menos da una piedra. And of course, Horrid Henry leaves behind not only a long string of acolytes, apprentices, chelas, worshippers and sundry cloned whatnots, but a “Kissinger Institute on China and the Unites States”… Bumba have mercy… (Not to mention a galactic sized lorry-load of curses from every corner of the planet and the beyond-deplorable memory of numberless dead Chileans, East Timorese, Laotians, Cambodians…you name it.) So, well done don Pedrito and meeir De Croo, and mauvais voyage to you, Dirty Harry. May you rot in a specially tailored Hell. And don’t give me any of that “don’t speak ill of the dead” putrid pieties, please. 🙂
Flora. Between rants, a bit of fluff. Here, have a bit of mystical boogie-woogy, courtesy of Ms. Floribunda Spiccata (Blooming Sharp in English), a close relative of the Roman goddess of spring and flowers and all things green and bright and beautiful. Join her in a jig and a jaunt for to exorcise the round-the-clock crap that we get on daily basis from…well, practically everywhere, really. Knees up, folks! Life may be like a chicken coop’s ladder, short and full of shit, but “that’s no reason to pout … smile and sweat it out.”* *Stephen Sondheim. Do I Hear a Waltz
The Pit and the Pendulum. Some time ago I said that I was waiting for the tide to turn. I was lying.
As a matter of fact I’m sick up to the gills with tides, returns and other pendular shenanigans.
A lifetime of left or right, black or white, us or them, good guys or …….. (enter here your designated enemy-du-jour’s name)……., with us or against us, either or moronic Manicheism, has left me with an actual, fierce, physical allergy to these kind of imbecile dynamics which are not dynamic at all. Dialectics that never reach a synthesis, not even a working compromise, let alone an expedient accommodation.
To tell the truth I dream of … I’m not sure what I dream of. Almost anything far, far, far removed from these crappy motions that go nowhere fast except to the bottomless pit of despair and annihilation. But I can tell you one of the things that pisses me right off about these hyper-fragmentary Inquisitions: that they are producing piles and piles and piles of fatuous, narrow, insular little worlds infinitely small and petty and, well, criminally tedious, really.
Yog-Sothoth, come ye amongst us and crunch all this shite in thy mighty maws and let the bugs and the rats and the tardigrades start a new something-or-other. They couldn’t possibly do worse that we have done. (Except for Bach, Goya and Geraldine Chaplin.) Have a sponditious week.
Gaza 2023. Why wait for November 11? Let’s remember right now!
It is said that one of the definitions of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expect a different outcome. According to this definition, with which I thoroughly concur, the state of Israel’s levels of madness must be off the charts. I know the whole world is slowly but surely going to the mad dogs but King Bibi, and his minions, and the prats that keep on voting him in (ad nauseam?) are truly astonishing in their (wilfully?) blind derangement. And if this statement makes me an antisemitic fiend in the crooked eyes of the likes of Suella Braverman and her cohorts, so be it. I know what I am or I’m not. And so do those who know me half well. And so does God…if there be one.
Meditation. Series Old Wine in New Bottles. More revisited stuff. This one has kept one of the original Shoggoths but the background and, especially, the substance have changed almost drastically. Switch off the telly. Turn off Radio 4. Bin the papers. Ditch your “smart” phone. Relax, sit still, take a deep breath, raise your middle finger and … Shooooooooooooom.
Lighthouse. Series New Wine in Old Bottles. A little indulgence, really. Amongst the many seldom-used drawing apps in my collection I found one that kind of mimics the good old Sonny Reader drawing tool looks. And, well, one can never have enough groovy lighthouses, does one? This one is especially luminous and the light she throws perforates and punctures sanctioned media bollocks like nobody’s business. I’ve arranged a meeting with Gorecho the poet with a view to examine in forensic detail the latest prodigious heaps-a-caca dished out stridently and relentlessly by the Guardians of Truth twenty four miserable hours a day, seven cursed days a week. The two small fishes, who organize the catering and the ex-curricular entertainment, are already deep in animated debate, bless their shiny little scales. Peace, love and an abundance of Beluga whales.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w042l9rKpzU
I Spy. For all the victims (Truth being amongst the casualties) of the latest ding-dong.
Two can play this game. Eyes peeled, folks.
Have a grand weekend. And un po’ di mu’ which will please hardly anyone.
