Gorgs Graphic Souk

Strolling. Here’s to the girl who’s not pretty and not nice and she knows it. She’s not fashionable, nor does she ever intend to be. She’s not on Instagram and she hasn’t got 35,672 friends on FaceFuckingBook. She doesn’t buy stuff from Amazon. She thinks influencers are a mug’s game. She likes to defy the odds. She doesn’t give a toss about mainstream rules and regulations and she laughs at social status. She’s brazen and jovial and light.
So she dons her bowler, grabs her captive balloon and off she goes a strolling and a wandering in the Submerged Secret Woods. Little odd fishes come out of their snug hidey-holes to stare and gape and gossip and giggle. And to toast her shamelessness.
N.B. The captive balloon is a freely and willing captive balloon. In part because, being a sociable beastie, it likes the companionship and in part because untethered it’s apt to float away and get hopelessly lost.

Style is knowing who you are, what you want to say, and not giving a damn.
Gore Vidal

Well Met 1. By the shores of the beautiful Chromatic Lake, in the Valley of Glee, two rambling giant Worms have come across a small (but perfectly formed) haranguing creature, the Radiant Raving Goddess of Righteous Wrath. She haunts the region and its fringes ranting like it’s going out of fashion about this, that and anything else that catches her mood. Occasionally she also does custom diatribes. If you ask her nicely and you suggest a topic she’d really like to sink her teeth in, off she’ll go on a rabbity, rampant tirade that will make your eyeballs itch and peel the skin off your nose. She’s lovely, she is. The giant Worms are thinking of starting up a fan club. If they do, I’ll be its first member, I will.
PS. This here doodle is for Ash, a master ranter if ever there was one. Here’s looking at you, kid!

Napping. There once was an old lady who fell asleep on a peregrine asteroid. She was very, very tired and the transient boulder seemed very genial and very snug, so she squeezed her teddy bear tight, asked her floating minders to keep watch and she drifted into a blissful slumber. And lo! the Mother of All Wise Onions appeared to her in dreams and revealed to her the secrets of how to survive the all-pervading and exponentially increasing mental retardation that has been swamping and drowning world-wide politics ever since, oh, I don’t know… the Bronze Age?, or even before. I can’t wait for the groovy wandering rock to float my way so I, too, can have a mystic amaryllian dream.

Vermicelli. And so He’s off again and the days will start getting shorter and before we know (by mid September, I forecast*) They will start with the Silly Season consumerism barrage of things we should buy/do/believe/love/indulge in/whatever. Never mind. Have a lovely summer solstice and tell the small Italian Worms to stop worrying. He’ll be back soon enough. He always does.
*Did you know that in this our miserable Disunited Kingdom, we have a TV channel entirely devoted to Xmas films from September onwards? Really. I never knew that could be so many crappy films about a seasonal thingummybob that has hardly any meaning any more except for the mercantile aspect. Blimey!

Odd Thoughts. Yes, he has some very strange thoughts. Often verging on the heretical. And so us do, too. Join us.:-)

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.