A syncretic little troll-like fetish standing in for a real human being — apparently articulating fears and frustrations but actually a tacky bit of posable plastic shit pedalled as a panacea, masquerading as myth — all impotent roar and fury signifying, doing, nothing … to change anything.
It’s there to prop up and perpetuate the staus quo — a silent but deadly war on the rest of us, robbing us, poisoning our dreams and our world … actually killing us.
Fuck off back to whatever shithole you came from — I don’t mean the US, more the imaginary aryan nation of daddy’s German American Bund — you aren’t welcome here.
After all, I hail from, officially, the mental health shithole of this country — let’s hear it for Stockport and shitholes everywhere!
The sad and frightening thing is that this crappy Trulk might just as well be the raging Id of our own national psyche too.
Just the second BBQ of the year but on a very special evening as Spring turns to Summer. Clearing away a shed load of the detritus from the old year.
Spring lamb Kebabs to die for … a glorious feast culturally appropriated from the wide fertile crescent and cooked on an American BBQ in a Cornish field … whatever … it was nommy.
With the stars above our heads, in a beautiful clear sky, and the earth beneath our feet, faces burning in the heat of the flames and the wind in our hair … and, very much, life bursting, bustling, snuffling all around us.
We even carefully, hurriedly, anxiously, carried the burning embers inside to rekindle our home fire … and it caught.
Because the premise is a lie … was always. Because family feuds are worse, civil wars not and because antisemitism is not exclusive when it comes to who the semites are … because Trump is, Netanyahu is … not …
And so people die. And live without hope … and now less … if that’s possible.
And not to aesthetisise anyone else’s pain, and not to ignore the ancient greek’s misogyny … why is this shit still going on … I’m not naive, just sad and angry.
So … this is an SSSI inside an AONB, both bottomless and very shallow, romantic and in fact rather dull, dark and mysterious and glittering and pretty but it’s been here a while and acquired its fair share of legends over the years.
This is where Arthur received Excalibur from the lady of the lake (she was very short apparently) and ultimately where Sir Bedivere returned it, demanding compensation for emotional distress, after it proved unfit for purpose at the battle of Camlann.
I forgot to add this to the rather heavy image dump today. This is actually where we had lunch on Sunday, on Bodmin but not actually on the top of Bodmin.
Presiding over the Samhain Sabat, Baphomet the Piggy Banker. Sinister little fucker.
With sincere apologies to Eliphas Levi, oh and Goya for that matter … please don’t drop in for dinner tomorrow … then again, might be fun.
So you’ve conflated an Ikea piggy bank and a demon idol? … I guess you just had to be there.
Been away for a while.
But this is not a diary and it doesn’t matter.
Woah, I gorn native … seein’ things an’ all.
Driving home in the wee small hours, fast along familiar, dark, deserted narrow lanes … and stone cold sober too — I was the des … and suddenly … in a bright bounding wave, caught in the headlights but wisely focused on escape, something crosses our path and leaps out of this world into the woods.
I will swear it was as big as a dog. It was a sort of golden honey colour and rough haired with a great rudder of a tail like a fox. Then fox it was … pale in the lights and yet … It had a blunt face, no snout, a domed head, no prominent ears, sunken eyes … it looked like …
Well, we both saw it and our descriptions matched … and no doubt fed and focused each other’s. We’ve been here a long time and I grew up somewhere very similar — we’re not at all alienated from the natural world. We’ve both got a scientific, practical, down-to-earth take on that world and even we see things in the night.