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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. :-)

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? PS. More rants sooooon come, worry not.

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.

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 pratts 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.

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. www.youtube.com/watch?v=w042l9rKpzU

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. www.youtube.com/watch?v=7hkyezdmMWU

Further Catalan Stuff. aka It Never Rains… Featuring the same original Cucafera Tarraconensis and some mates she met at another tea party she was invited by one of her many admirers, the tiny Tentacular Thing With a Teddy wot kept watch upon the hills. Now they all travel Clouds 9 to 13. The beautiful lady dragon says, to anyone willing to listen, that drifting up & down the skies in kawai company, beats shuffling along the main drag of Tarragona City with a handful of blokes under her carapace trying to make her dance sardanas. See, the advantages of a pukka social life? As opposed to that dumb-show folks call “social” media, where you have 33,456 “friends”, none of which really gives a toss whether you live or die, not to mention several trolls and the odd stalker. Down with FaceFuckingBook! (And Snapchat, Twitter/X, Tick-Tock, Instagram and, at a pinch, Amazon.) Have a spiffing anti-“social” life.

Series Old Wine in New Bottles. Here we go again. Revisiting old stuff, originally done in, Bumba help us, a Sony Reader, back in the prehistory of me and tablets. The original was in glorious B&W. This version is in glorious dark tones and comes with extra chaotic skies, a dread Doom Tower and a couple of art-critical birdies. As for the preserving of the original characters, my line is that one can’t have enough renegade Protoshoggoths and, especially, gossipy baby Night Gaunts. There. Enjoy it, if you can, and have a splendiferous weekend.

The presence of the Itinerant Ladybird has been requested by the Shoggies to work her midwifery magic in the birth of what everybody hopes will be the last-ditch Snake of True Wisdom. The Snake (a variety of Sneak) has been conjured for to do battle with the Forces of Apathy, Ignorance and Media Mendacity. Welcome to the End Days, pretty lady!

This is a little something I did for a friend who mistook synergy for synchronicity. Nothing like some dancing damsels to illustrate what is what.

More Catalan Stuff. Starring the original Cucafera (de Tarragona): The famous Vermis Ferus Tarraconensis: ca.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cucafera_de_Tarragona She was noticed by a talent-spotter from the Mid-Badlands on a weekend break in that beautiful region of Catalonia. He fell in love with the delicious creature then and there and he invited her to a tea-shindig forthwith. The adventurous worm accepted with alacrity and off she went to the perfumed knees-up, where she was an unmitigated success and charmed everybody off their socks. I do love a good love story, don’t you?

aka True Bliss. Really, who cares if the the flower is no longer all that bright and the grass has lost some of its splendour as long as there are Shoggies in it? And yes, this is the last of the series Denizens of the Tall Grassland, also known as the Whehthefuckahwe. Have a spiffing week.

Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower We will grieve not, Rather, we will dance and drink and riot and make merry and to hell with the flipping Sacred Markets and the Vampire Industrial Complexes! So tells the fierce chubby chappie to the also chubby wraiths. We, The Family and yours truly, are all behind him. Life’s too short. Stay sane.

Remember,remember 11 September. No, not that one. Or the one some Catalans like both to celebrate and kvetch about (how’s that for cognitive dissonance?). This is for the other-other one, the one that befell Chile 50 years ago. The one nobody likes to remember, let alone talk about. Karma, cause & effect, what goes ‘round comes ‘round, you push here something pushes back there...call it what you will, that’s the way the cookie crumbles. Or as Michel Foucault pithily said: “Where there is power, there is resistance.” But the Greening Plodder and her pal, the Mouthy Mouse, remember. And they say so , loudly and with great wealth of sordid detail. Which, of course, irritates the Sanctimonious Reverend and his tiny indentured dependant. This is a small but not insignificant part of the exercise, naturally. Never hesitate to speak heresy. These days of blatant, endless lunacy, is the only thing that makes life bearable. Well, that and teddy bears. Henry Kissinger may you rot in Hell in the company of Milton Friedman and all his minions. Have a lovely week. music.youtube.com/watch?v=4JVaRloezno&list=OLAK5uy_m5dsS1Dt0iGfY4QA4aJpqLOzFKBebrfnU music.youtube.com/watch?v=T7TeBLyZTeQ&list=RDAMVMsePxSQfwP8o music.youtube.com/watch?v=rX_NFOLYxb8&list=RDAMVMsePxSQfwP8o

CucaFera and Baby. Catalan Stuff I. This be the reworking of a cover of a very short-lived Catalan satirical magazine published in Barcelona between April and August 1917. I’m pretty sure the contents wouldn’t have been my cup of Rosie even then but I do love some of the graphics of that period. My CucaFera (Vermis Indomitus Cultus) and her baby, whose name is Laia, have come across a wandering self-exiled Yithian teenager who left its wonder-city back in primeval down-under because of a strong disagreement with the Chief Librarian. See it here, blubbering on lavishly about all the wrongs done to it and how it misses the humid swamps and the luxuriant forests of giant ferns and, worse of all, its loss of library privileges. The scholarly creeper, always sympathetic to such melancholy cases and a sucker for a sob story has offered the defecting youth a loan of her own collection of literary masterpieces, like the complete works of Emma Goldman and a comprehensive edition of Garcia Lorca's poetry. Such a kind creature, she is. Warning: More varieties of Catalan Worms/Dragons/Snakes/Whatnots coming soon.

Dude! You’re right. So this one is for you. ;-) Here’s a sweet little family scene. Mrs. Dino and her young daughter Lilly have gone for a wee walk and met the ineffable Shub-Niggurath rambling upon the hills and brooding in the forests and being permanently unhappy, as it’s Her wont. Mrs. D. never misses an opportunity to give wise counsel, whether solicited or not, so here she is telling the Shubby to chill out and relax and smell the flowers. It’s all very well, though, for the laid-back saurian to give such advice; she has a nice Mr. Dino back in the swamp, who helps with the cleaning and tidying and the communal babysitting. And only one nipper, so far. Whereas the poor old incomparable Black Goat of the Woods has 999* Young -all very badly behaved and inclined to rioting at a drop of a hat- no mate to help with the rearing and education of said juvenile yahoos and hardly ever a babysitter -which is not surprising as She tends to eat them, bless Her monster socks. I do do the odd stint as Young-minder when I can see that She’s getting really stressed. The Wee Worms chip in and that gives the Ineffable One a chance to piss off to beautiful Lake Hali for a long weekend. In exchange for the respite She tells me “things”. Give and take, that’s out motto. *999 because one of Her Young took off some years gone to travel the Void and have adventures and, most significantly, to stay away from music lessons in general and flutes in particular, with which he had a thorny relationship (basically he broke them). Young 753 as he then was (now renamed Oops by Lavinia, the Hyper-Penguin) is doing very well and dutifully writes home regularly -which doesn’t stop Mother from grumbling about filial ingratitude. Cría cuervos... She mutters now and again. Secretly, though, She’s dead proud of Her intrepid and enterprising offspring.

Tall Grass. aka Fish Out of Water. This here lot have lost their way and are now stranded in tall grass terrain. Oh dear. What a bummer. The twin suns are nearly as nonplussed as the poor wee darlings. Let’s hope they can help them find their way out of the woods soon-soon.