Desaparecida

Yes, rabbit hole and all.

But only if you can play nice. Or be extraordinarily interesting.

A nought-told tale

As much as I’m in the mood for Footwear as a non-salacious topic for bemused discussion, I’m sensing more than one problem.

First, of course, I would be abandoning half of our readers, or at least those amongst that half whom I would care to know, since I must admit I don’t much fancy gentlemen who give more than a passing thought to their brogues or flip-flops or Docs or whatever. Yes, I do believe that there are a number of Issues which should be the sole province of the Ladies.

Cosmetics, of course. Unless, that is, the gentleman in question prefers to don the entire costume. Oh, and every once in a while mascara is fine, as long as it’s navy.

And bed linens! There are few things in the universe more off-putting than hearing a man using the term “thread count.” Even ladies know enough to confine the words to the cloistered privacy of their own sculleries.

Unfortunately, I do have an amusing tale of a Boy and his Boots, but given the times and the parties involved, the telling of it might have somewhat unfortunate consequences. Suffice that once upon a time one of my very best friends received an urgent request for a replacement pair of his most fave, most hardy and well-known brand of very waterproof, very durable, um, boots. They were dispatched through the usual channels, along with the Beconase that had been earmarked for me [much to my chagrin, because my allergies are much worse than his].

A transaction ultimately regretted by all involved.

Which is the very best part of the story. So good, in fact, that we might even find it in an upcoming issue of Yo! Basta. Yes, our most glossy Tabloid of the Left is promising a bit of a renascence itself.

Or so promised our divinely authentic Editrice, who was reporting, a tad incoherently, from Somewhere in Cannes.

...yet fully shod

Yes, my very gentle ladies and occasionally artful gentlemen, I find myself coaxed to light of day.

First, to make careful note of how swiftly even the slightest spot of disrobing on the Internets will be made note of.

And to thank one of the most artful amongst you for the charming, and much appreciated, bit of poesy. One of my favourites, as he must have known, exquisitely wrought and an astonishing surprise.

As for the rest – Life, Love, Work, Footwear, Flora and Such - time to revisit all, I should imagine.

But perhaps we should tread lightly for now, forgoing the first three topics for the moment, and concentrate on the latter.

Footwear, Flora and Such…

Renascence

Yes, darlings, much too long in the rabbit hole.

As for the previous post, I was forced to delete it entirely as Blogger was refusing to allow me to delete some of those more annoying Comments individually.

I trust our most kind readers will forgive me for vaporizing their words and might, in true spirit of seasonal charity, provide us with more.

And, speaking of more, I promise the same.

A paterian prince of a man

My determination to stay in the kiddie pool for the duration of this silly month is being nicely aided and abetted by newsreaders, Editrice and Shadow in Hiding himself.

On this, the dismal side, of the pond, the airwaves have spent most of their time following the footsteps, words and facial expressions of a pasty faced little oddity who appears to have somehow managed to engage the western world in his own dismal decomposition.

Lots of reasons for this obsession, of course. After all, it feels like an international interactive suspense novel of the more tawdry sort, perfect for armchair detecting or semi-sublimated voyeurism.

But then I thought of Lewis Carroll, with his similarly delicate features, diminutive figure and tiny obsessions. One senses, in both, a desire to escape, back to the certainties, simplicity and beauty of childhood.

Like others of similar bent they seem centered on their own fragility, feeding it even, as if to emphasize how impossible it is for them to traverse, let alone survive, this world, the real, the “grown-up” one. And, again, their need to flee, to find comfort in childish things.

One can sympathize with the impulse, understand the desire for flight, for imposing innocence and utopia once again. But even so, there are paths and then there are other paths.

Oscar Wilde, in his own way, writing delightful children’s tales and playing dress-up, but still managing to negotiate the real world. His tools, of course, were wit, elegance and sartorial excellence, the consummate paterian aesthete and self-described anarchist.

I like the combination, of course: a gentleman equally devoted to foppery and politics, who happily penned fairy tales and Swiftean tract. The hardest path of all, perhaps. Not back to dimly remembered garden, but rather firmly planted in the moral present. Flowers and all.

Girls, girls, girls!!

We are valiantly maintaining our current determination – at least through August – to refuse to countenance any Serious Discussion about North Korea, imperialist plots, Iron Man tales, subversion in the ranks of the newly Otra, creepy expatriate 2nd grade teachers and/or twisted sisters of any sort.

And so we are left with Girls.

Girls wishing to amuse themselves.

A subject not nearly as pervy as it might sound, unless, of course, they might so wish.

And, given the nature of less than perfect current circumstances, it had been much too long since I’d paid a visit to the valiant Ladies United for the Preservation of Endangered Cocktails, and such a visit it was.

Do take a peek at their Cannon Fodder page, delightful in and of itself, but especially resonant given present times and past concerns. As well as the obverse.

Speaking of drink, the Sound of Music Drinking Game far surpasses my previous favorite, devoted to the State of the Union Address, substantially notching up the perv factor.

Now that we’ve somehow managed to let ourselves be dragged, kicking and screaming, into the pleasantly debauched, there is also a roadshow for tarts afoot. A much better idea, and of this I’m certain, than waiting for other boys to come out of hiding and show them the way.

For those feeling a tad off-put and cranky, I promise your spirits will be lifted, and recipes provided, at Disgruntled Housewives. And, oddly enough, none of the fun has to do with acquiring a cache of automatic weapons and/or major tranquilizers.

And, in celebration of all the above referenced, and in hopes of giving hope to fledgling tarts everywhere, we have these delightful words from Suzie Bright, a lady who should know and whom all bad girls should know, as well:

“Every time a woman's blog proclaims her intellect, her sexuality, and her nurture — all on the same page— she has diced the dominant paradigm.
She has motherfucked her way into new consciousness, with the radiant touch of real life…”

Halcyon pleasures

Seduction, once again.

Odd how my mind so rarely strays from that charming subject in all its incarnations.

But now, mid August and swooning from the swelter, I’m in the mood for languor. For tarrying in odd enticing corners, for gentle, intriguing notions.

I somehow imagine that courtship begun on a midsummer eve might flourish with such slow pace. A flutter of fans, night-scented blooms tucked unseen behind garden bower.

Thoughtful missives strewn here and there, waiting patiently for the quiet magic of discovery.

So, a time for discussing Wilkie Collins in the back garden with a charming new swain and for revisiting Durkheim in a cool, dark nook in the Study.

Stolen moments, when Time, as we know it, seems silly and irrelevant. Duty refuses to call, and we’re left with a meadow full of possibilities. A poem to write, a paella to concoct, even another world to be conjured.

Seduction in the time of indolence would be less focused, fraught or finite, a time for simple, silly indulgence, the delicious divertissement before the next Act must be considered.

And, speaking of a meadow of possibilities, cheering news from our amatory source of first resort, Dangerous Liaisons. I shan’t give it away, but suffice that we are pleased.

Sweeping the Parlour

Such an understatement to wearily note that we’re getting much too much bored with bores of late. Especially those with agenda on their little minds, vendetta in their teensy hearts and way too much time on their sweaty little palms.

Therefore, an evening of the very opposite. Substance, grace and honour.

First, locally speaking, as it were, CML-DF, or Centro de medios libres del distrito federal. I was directed there today by a Comment on the Page and was pleasantly surprised to find what actually does look like “free media”. Versus most of the “alt media” which somehow manages to pleasure itself while simultaneously servicing its gods .

No nasty little gatekeepers here [and a tip of my hat to the ever vicious La Otra Buena Conciencia at the Page -who grows more demented and homicidal by the day - for accomplishing what might have cost CISEN buckets of money: driving so many smart, committed compas out of the OC], wide-ranging coverage, reasoned discourse…

And, for those who might truly be interested in pursuing some of the issues which have surfaced in recent Comments, let me remind you of a group I’ve reminded you of on more than one occasion: Globalise Resistance. Their links are especially helpful.

But, if you’d like to go where I go, almost every day, and especially when overwhelmed by the intellectual and moral cowardice - and vacuum - that seems to envelope almost every corner of late, do try Social Anarchism.

There you will find delight, civility, scholarship, an astonishing array of good words and thoughts, a universe away from the Page or from googling wankers.

But best of all, tonight I finally found, there, the most perfect, delicious and spot on definition of anarchism ever:

"Hedonism…tempered by an acute sense of responsibility."

Evening the playing field

Stealing voz.

It's been a matter of great concern at YO! of late, but Jasmine and Peony have been doing a damn fine job of unmasking and rehabilitating the evil-doers. We’ve even touched on it, more than once, right here in the Parlour.

And, speaking of right here in the Parlour and stealing voz, I’ve been amazed at how much of the latter has been attempted in the former. Not pleasantly amazed, of course, but, given my perverse and wrongheaded penchant for pattern recognition, I’ve noticed a certain taxonomy.

Yes, think of this as a folio in progress, a scribble of field notes:


The Pedant.

Not even a glimmer of surprise here, given his never-ending, annually renewed supply of naïve disciples. Syllabus writ in stone, resting on long-faded laurels, what better domain for the silencing of voz than fair academe?

His tactics are amusing and rife with the hurling of “correct sources”, “informed [read: his] thought”, tangential argument and hysteria. What might be awe inspiring to cowed freshmen inspires little but giggles to those with a mind and a library of their own. There is, after all, good reason and history for the term “ivory tower”, and he would do better to remain there, surrounded by sycophants of similar low self-regard.

There are also those who, for one reason or another, cannot hold forth from properly recognized hallowed groves, but they often act as Shadow-master or Ghost behind the Throne, issuing forth tract and doctrine.

The Pedant steals voz by stifling or supplanting.


The Politician

Unlike the academic, the hack has no ego problems, other than the fact that his own inflated sense of self-worth tends to quickly suck all the air out of any room he enters. Convinced that he is the best and brightest, he is driven to make sure that everyone around him is equally convinced.

He must weigh in on every conceivable issue, and word count is everything. His stratagems are numerous and, like him, ever shifting. Refocusing subject, whether subtly [by, for example, cherry picking an opponent’s argument and running with a single comment] or unabashedly; theft [“yes, as my dear colleague so aptly restated my point”; denial [as in, he never said that or, in the age of video loops and hard drives, he was deliberately misinterpreted] and all the rest of his tired gambits.

Their habitats are wide-ranging, and their messianic self promotion fills our airwaves, bandwidth and archives.

They steal voz through artifice, pomposity and brute force.


Zealots

These are the feverish ones, the ardent followers, unquestioning acolytes at an altar they did not create. Quick to detect doctrinal error, they act as classroom snitch, hall monitor, trusty.

When they’re not busy doing rude slapdowns on the Page [and abundant thanks, once again, to Jasmine and Peony for having sequestered and rehabilitated the False Web Administrator, thus lessening, if not entirely ending, said slapdowns], they’re contorting themselves, pretzel-like, in an attempt to explain and justify today’s Holy Writ. Phrases such as: “…(we) can only wait for the answer and continue to offer what political support is requested…”

This is a hallmark of zealots of any nature: the hierarchical nature of doctrine and follower. Right Doctrine exists above, far above them, and they exist but to serve it. Theirs, never, to “reason why”. Theirs, unfortunately often, “to do and die”. Since they have fashioned their entire moral, and often professional, universe on blind obedience to a particular set creed [although it, the creed, unlike the parishioners, IS allowed to shift], any questioning, no matter how minor, would indeed be tantamount to death.

So the zealots steal voz by turning it in, damning it, screaming at it.

And, yes, we have seen, and see, all the above, many times over, everywhere.

Even in Parlour, Library and YO!

A field guide to field mice

Enquiring minds might note that I have added the full text of John Ross' article on the Red Alert to our very own Library.

I also added a Comment, which consists of a rebuttal of sorts, which was forwarded to me by a most dear friend. In the interest, of course, of meticulous Fox-like "fair and balanced". Do feel free to join the reasoned debate there.

And, for those of you who take special delight in the deliciously unfair and off-balanced, do look for More Girl on Girl Action, or Part 2 of Peony and Jasmine's mutual interview. We are promised that Violet shall be making her long-awaited entrance, and, depending on surveillance issues and what the Editrice gets up to this evening, Part 2 will make it to print either tonight or on the morrow.

Pleasuring

Where the bee sucks, there suck I
In a cowslip’s bell I lie;
There I couch when owls do cry.
On the bat’s back I do fly
After summer merrily:
Merrily, merrily shall I live now
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.

"The Tempest" (5.1.97-103)


Firmly ensconced under the blossoms, with nary a thought of the Big Bad World.

Not mine to reason why, nor to tax my silly little head with questions of War and Peace, Reason and Insanity, Boys and Girls or why the stars come out at night.

Though I should warn our more timid readers to please avoid YO! right now, as they are indeed addressing some of the above issues. And not in the seemliest of fashion.

I do, however, want to proffer a flutter of my fan to the gentleman who recently managed to locate that rarest of current commodities, his cojones [I hasten to add that said commodity is by no means lacking amongst our own valiant salonistas]. You may find the reference in Comments under the previous Post.

No, what I’ve really been thinking about – tucked under the blossoms, as I am – are the birds and the bees. But of course. Blossoms overhead, birds fluttering about, bees tarrying here and there.

A veritable seraglio.

Ennui

So many mysteries, so little time...

Was it the gentleman of eclectic past who once thought militarism might be undone?

Or perhaps the guitar strumming ghost from Wynacht's Point?

Or, even better, Professor Plum in the Study with the Rope?

Then again:




Macavity: The Mystery Cat

Macavity's a Mystery Cat: he's called the Hidden Paw -
For he's the master criminal who can defy the Law.
He's the bafflement of Scotland Yard, the Flying Squad's despair:
For when they reach the scene of crime - Macavity's not there!

Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity,
He's broken every human law, he breaks the law of gravity.
His powers of levitation would make a fakir stare,
And when you reach the scene of crime - Macavity's not there!
You may seek him in the basement, you may look up in the air -
But I tell you once and once again, Macavity's not there!

Mcavity's a ginger cat, he's very tall and thin;
You would know him if you saw him, for his eyes are sunken in.
His brow is deeply lined with thought, his head is highly domed;
His coat is dusty from neglect, his whiskers are uncombed.
He sways his head from side to side, with movements like a snake;
And when you think he's half asleep, he's always wide awake.

Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity,
For he's a fiend in feline shape, a monster of depravity.
You may meet him in a by-street, you may see him in the square -
But when a crime's discovered, then Macavity's not there!

He's outwardly respectable. (They say he cheats at cards.)
And his footprints are not found in any file of Scotland Yard's.
And when the larder's looted, or the jewel-case is rifled,
Or when the milk is missing, or another Peke's been stifled,
Or the greenhouse glass is broken, and the trellis past repair -
Ay, there's the wonder of the thing! Macavity's not there!

And when the Foreign Office find a Treaty's gone astray,
Or the Admiralty lose some plans and drawings by the way,
There may be a scrap of paper in the hall or on the stair -
But it's useless to investigate - Mcavity's not there!
And when the loss has been disclosed, the Secret Service say:
`It must have been Macavity!' - but he's a mile away.
You'll be sure to find him resting, or a-licking of his thumbs,
Or engaged in doing complicated long-division sums.

Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity,
There never was a Cat of such deceitfulness and suavity.
He always has an alibi, and one or two to spare:
At whatever time the deed took place - MACAVITY WASN'T THERE!
And they say that all the Cats whose wicked deeds are widely known
(I might mention Mungojerrie, I might mention Griddlebone)
Are nothing more than agents for the Cat who all the time
Just controls their operations: the Napoleon of Crime!
-- T. S. Eliot

Home again

"...Y la vida es misterio, la luz ciega
y la verdad inaccesible asombra;
la adusta perfección jamás se entrega,
y el secreto ideal duerme en la sombra.

Por eso ser sincero es ser potente;
de desnuda que está, brilla la estrella;
el agua dice el alma de la fuente
en la voz de cristal que fluye de ella..."
Rubén Darío




Home. I wish.

And, since that is a subject which is ever on my mind, that’s probably why I’ve been thinking so much lately of other homes, home.

Not the OC, but what came before. Not the EZ and their spokesperson, but those who, we were told, gave them writ and path.

Those who, we were told, taught them, changed them, gave them new ways of seeing the world, of claiming it and making it.

And so there were autonomous communities, municipalities, evolving into other structures. There was governance from below, “governing obeying”, rotating leadership positions, the removal of unfit officials by the governed, decision-making by consensus-making, and much more.

It was what many called zapatismo. It existed before the OC, even, in many senses, before the EZ, and, I presume, it still exists today. In the communities – which have not suddenly disappeared off the map just because spotlight and words have departed. And it exists in many other places. In the hearts, minds, dreams and even path of people, groups and organizations quite literally throughout the world.

The communities grew, disproportionately we know, and, as they did, their needs evolved as well. From being overwhelmingly concerned, in many cases, with security measures against paramilitary and military forces, they were able to focus more on thriving rather than surviving.

Schools, housing, medical care, food, became paramount. Self-sustaining paradigms for these were required, as well as financial and moral support, better communications and infrastructure. The hard work grew harder, more demanding and daily, less dramatic.

But the communities still exist, as do their schools and clinics, warehouses and brick-making machines, basketball courts and cultural centres.

As do the paradigms and playing fields.

A promise or two

I have been enjoying the proliferation of claimed spaces of late. Other feet on ground, making up the worlds they wish to live in. And the ensuing linkage.

Odd, how these words have a vaguely familiar ring.

Ten days of silence above/below, but the acolytes have had much to say, all the same naughty words, full of sound and fury, signifying, well, what we know they signify.

They were given permission a number of years ago, when the words started to change, permission to replace history, reasoned argument and wisdom with ephemera, invective and argumentum ad hominem.

Una lástima, in every single meaning of that simple word.

So, no more words from me on the subject for quite some time, I’m afraid. Although I am still hoping that another mama, of long standing and good stead, might be having a few words to say, perhaps even a scolding along with the hugs, for one of the boys in question.

And cheers to the ghosts in the Parlour machine today, who succeeded, however briefly, in taking us down. I assume it was the posies and poesy that pushed you over the edge, providing firewall for invective but coaxing you to brute force attack.

All is well, of course, and I believe Jasmine and Peony have already solved the case and are plotting cunning revenge.

Sweetness and light

Yes, I’ve decided to stay in the Parlour/Garden, and not just for the summer.

A much finer place from which to view the world. Feet more or less firmly planted on ground. Hands in dirt. Tending or flirting, dozing, reading, playing, nibbling, weeding, gathering.

Even plotting and solving, as Jasmine and Peony well know.

We also enjoy silence from time to time, even more when it’s followed by greater wisdom, perspective and lightness of spirit. Especially, may it please the gods, the latter, although I still believe the latter is a necessary and much wished for consequence of both the former.

And, speaking of wisdom, perspective and lightness of spirit…wishing my most favourite person an even greater abundance of all, always.

Especially the latter. Especially today. And tons of love and cheer.

Under the lilacs

Simply reclaiming space, or Parlour, this weekend.

And also hoping that a bevy of posies and poesy might even act as a kind of firewall, warding off the ill-humoured, whilst welcoming, with endless embrace, the other. Or, as our dear John Keats once noted:


GIVE me women, wine, and snuff
Untill I cry out "hold, enough!"
You may do so sans objection
Till the day of resurrection:
For, bless my beard, they aye shall be
My beloved Trinity.

Jasmine and Peony

Down by the Salley Gardens

DOWN by the salley gardens my love and I did meet;

She passed the salley gardens with little snow-white feet.

She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree;

I, being young and foolish, with her would not agree.

In a field by the river my love and I did stand,

And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow-white hand.

She bid me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs;

But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears.

William Butler Yeats

Derring-do and derring-don't

Well, Blogger is still denying pics, despite having closed down today in order to "fix" said incapacity. And I so felt the need for a bit of beauty and grace.

I will keep trying, but, in the interim, I wished to alert those Readers Who Care of two new contributions.

One is Jasmine's first fling, or, rather, filing, in YO! dangerous and daring piece of derring-do that they hope shall leave their readers breathless.

And, in an almost frightening bit of Life Imitating Art [as the YO! reportage was filed prior to this one], we have archived a new Set of Rules, posted today on the Page, in our Library. I am quite sure that one of our recent Commenters will be thrilled, although I was tempted to tears.

I may or may not translate it.

Disrobing redux

Despite my usual penchant for masques, mystery and Marvell, this evening seems to demand something other from us, given current words.

Once upon a time, in celebration of the first issue of a new magazine, a much-renowned gentleman penned the following lines, paradoxically [given perceived possible disconnect between said lines and recipient] and ironically [given perceived lack of disconnect between method of address and said recipient], to a compa he addressed as his “big brother”:


“...UNO.- El quehacer intelectual de izquierda debe ser, ante todo, un ejercicio crítico y autocrítico.
Como lo autocrítico siempre queda pospuesto para el número siguiente, entonces la crítica se convierte en el motor único del pensamiento...”

Or, in one of our other languages:

“...ONE. – The intellectual work of the left should be, above all else, a critical and self-critical exercise.
Since self-critique is always postponed for the next issue, then criticism becomes the sole engine of thought..”

For those of doubting nature:
http://www.revistarebeldia.org/html/index.php?name=News&file;=article&sid=148

One might be tempted to assume that the eternally self-perpetuating postponement, the illusory Next Issue, is shaping up. The fact is, as one of our noted salonistas has already noted, like the Real Slim Shady, the Auto-Critique Issue has been out there for some time. It has been easy to miss, however, since the moment one its articles, or comments, has appeared, the author has been summarily dismissed, reviled, garroted or purged.

The segue to Josef and his Compas-in-Arms presenting itself so handily… there was an earlier Post, two in fact, on the subject. Disrobing [yes, “v”, always] and Noblesse Oblige, both in February of this year. There are some interesting crumbs to be followed there, speaking of, oh, fawning, faux and perhaps false spin doctoring.

But, speaking of purges, we are delighted to announce that our Pulitzer-ready YO! undercover reporter, Yasmin, is putting the final touches on a daring exposé of her own. She tells us that it has to do with mysteriously non-revolving IP numbers, “shaping the story” faux pas, site administrators gone wild and rude children with much too much time on their hands.

Do look for it soon, if, that is, you enjoy a pinch of criticón along with the crítico.

Just a note

Well, no images again tonight, so I shall ask you to imagine our demure flapper, adjusting her high-denier stockings, whom you must remember and who can be seen...yes... Below and to the Left.

I did wish to let most of you know that we have a new acquisition in our Library, which I know some of you shall enjoy as much as I do. The gentleman in question and I share many concerns, most especially, as you will see, in the very last line of his essay.

For the spear-carriers amongst us, please feel free to leave your Comments in the Library.

More anon, I should imagine.