Wednesday, 4 September 2024
Monday, 2 September 2024
Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin - Leonard Cohen
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source: .https://youtu.be/5_j4f0HiEh0
Monday, 19 August 2024
Wednesday, 5 June 2024
Saturday, 18 May 2024
Likes and Dislikes in May 2024 (will be updated)
Australian Fashion Week in Sydney: pic.twitter.com/bjM4Ea1TGk
— Clown Down Under 🤡 (@clowndownunder) May 18, 2024
Saturday, 16 March 2024
Monday, 4 March 2024
Likes and Dislikes for March 2024
I will update this post as I find more
"pearls" and "dumps" during this month.
Tuesday, 20 February 2024
Flypaper by Robert Musil
Flypaper
Tangle-foot flypaper is approximately fourteen inches long and eight inches wide; it is coated with a yellow poison paste and comes from Canada. When a fly lands on it—not so eagerly, more out of convention, because so many others are already there—it gets stuck at first by only the outermost joints of all its legs. A very quiet, disconcerting sensation, as though while walking in the dark we were to step on something with our naked soles, nothing more than a soft, warm, unavoidable obstruction, and yet something into which little by little the awesome human essence flows, recognized as a hand that just happens to be lying there, and with five ever more decipherable fingers, holds us tight.
Here they stand all stiffly erect, like cripples pretending to be normal, or like decrepit old soldiers (and a little bowlegged, the way you stand on a sharp edge). They hold themselves upright, gathering strength and pondering their position. After a few seconds they’ve come to a tactical decision and they begin to do what they can, to buzz and try to lift themselves. They continue this frantic effort until exhaustion makes them stop. Then they take a breather and try again. But the intervals grow even longer. They stand there and I feel how helpless they are. Bewildering vapors rise from below. Their tongue gropes about like a tiny hammer. Their head is brown and hairy, as though made of a coconut, as manlike as an African idol. They twist forward and backward on their firmly fastened little legs, bend at the knees and lean forward like men trying to move a too-heavy load: more tragic than the working man, truer as an athletic expression of the greatest exertion than Lacoön. And then comes the extraordinary moment when the imminent need of a second’s relief wins out over the almighty instincts of self-preservation. It is the moment when the mountain climber because of the pain in his fingers willfully loosens his grip, when the man lost in the snow lays himself down like a child, when the hunted man stops dead with aching lungs. They no longer hold themselves up with all their might, but sink a little, and at that moment appear totally human. Immediately they get stuck somewhere else, higher up on the leg, or behind, or at the tip of a wing.
When after a little while they’ve overcome the spiritual exhaustion and resume the fight for survival, they’re trapped in an unfavorable position and their movements become unnatural. Then they lie down with outstretched hindlegs, propped up on their elbows, and try to lift themselves. Or else seated on the ground they rear up with outstretched arms like women who attempt in vain to wrest their hands free of a man’s fists. Or they lie on their belly, with head and arms in front of them as though fallen while running, and they only still hold up their face. But the enemy is always passive and wins at just such desperate, muddled moments. A nothing, an it draws them in: so slowly that one can hardly follow, and usually with an abrupt acceleration at the very end, when the last inner breakdown overcomes them. Then, all of a sudden, they let themselves fall, forward on their face, head over heels; or sideways with all legs collapsed; frequently also rolled on their side with their legs rowing to the rear. This is how they lie there. Like crashed planes with one wing reaching out into the air. Or like dead horses. Or with endless gesticulations of despair. Or like sleepers. Sometimes event the next day, one of them wakes up, gropes a while with one leg or flutters a wing. Sometimes such a movement sweeps over the lot, then all of them sink a little deeper into death. And only on the side, near their legsockets, is their some tiny wriggling organ that still lives a long time. It opens and closes, you can’t describe it without a magnifying glass, it looks like a miniscule human eye that ceaselessly opens and shuts.
Tangle-foot flypaper is approximately fourteen inches long and eight inches wide; it is coated with a yellow poison paste and comes from Canada. When a fly lands on it—not so eagerly, more out of convention, because so many others are already there—it gets stuck at first by only the outermost joints of all its legs. A very quiet, disconcerting sensation, as though while walking in the dark we were to step on something with our naked soles, nothing more than a soft, warm, unavoidable obstruction, and yet something into which little by little the awesome human essence flows, recognized as a hand that just happens to be lying there, and with five ever more decipherable fingers, holds us tight.
Here they stand all stiffly erect, like cripples pretending to be normal, or like decrepit old soldiers (and a little bowlegged, the way you stand on a sharp edge). They hold themselves upright, gathering strength and pondering their position. After a few seconds they’ve come to a tactical decision and they begin to do what they can, to buzz and try to lift themselves. They continue this frantic effort until exhaustion makes them stop. Then they take a breather and try again. But the intervals grow even longer. They stand there and I feel how helpless they are. Bewildering vapors rise from below. Their tongue gropes about like a tiny hammer. Their head is brown and hairy, as though made of a coconut, as manlike as an African idol. They twist forward and backward on their firmly fastened little legs, bend at the knees and lean forward like men trying to move a too-heavy load: more tragic than the working man, truer as an athletic expression of the greatest exertion than Lacoön. And then comes the extraordinary moment when the imminent need of a second’s relief wins out over the almighty instincts of self-preservation. It is the moment when the mountain climber because of the pain in his fingers willfully loosens his grip, when the man lost in the snow lays himself down like a child, when the hunted man stops dead with aching lungs. They no longer hold themselves up with all their might, but sink a little, and at that moment appear totally human. Immediately they get stuck somewhere else, higher up on the leg, or behind, or at the tip of a wing.
When after a little while they’ve overcome the spiritual exhaustion and resume the fight for survival, they’re trapped in an unfavorable position and their movements become unnatural. Then they lie down with outstretched hindlegs, propped up on their elbows, and try to lift themselves. Or else seated on the ground they rear up with outstretched arms like women who attempt in vain to wrest their hands free of a man’s fists. Or they lie on their belly, with head and arms in front of them as though fallen while running, and they only still hold up their face. But the enemy is always passive and wins at just such desperate, muddled moments. A nothing, an it draws them in: so slowly that one can hardly follow, and usually with an abrupt acceleration at the very end, when the last inner breakdown overcomes them. Then, all of a sudden, they let themselves fall, forward on their face, head over heels; or sideways with all legs collapsed; frequently also rolled on their side with their legs rowing to the rear. This is how they lie there. Like crashed planes with one wing reaching out into the air. Or like dead horses. Or with endless gesticulations of despair. Or like sleepers. Sometimes event the next day, one of them wakes up, gropes a while with one leg or flutters a wing. Sometimes such a movement sweeps over the lot, then all of them sink a little deeper into death. And only on the side, near their legsockets, is their some tiny wriggling organ that still lives a long time. It opens and closes, you can’t describe it without a magnifying glass, it looks like a miniscule human eye that ceaselessly opens and shuts.
Monday, 19 February 2024
Katie Hopkins speaks of things to come....
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Friday, 16 February 2024
Of Russian Cakes and Nasty Bullies
From Russia with Love
Robert F. Kennedy Jr. Exposes a ‘Money Laundering Scheme’
“Even if the Ukraine war ended today, we’re still going to spend half a trillion there rebuilding the country.”
But get this, Mitch McConnell has essentially admitted that the money is not going to Ukraine, but to military contractors.
That’s good news for General Dynamics, Boeing, and Lockheed Martin.
But “who do you think owns every one of those companies?” Kennedy asked.
The answer: BlackRock.
“It’s all just a money laundering scheme.”
H/T VigilantFox
Oh, and how they badmouthed Putin, and how they hounded "Russians"...
"From Russia with Love".
When she refused to put up the Ukrainian flag, she started to get threats, even death threats (she told me). She was brave and held out as long as she could. But finally, the nasty side won and she closed her lovely little shop.
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Sunday, 11 February 2024
Of Virgins and Mothers-in-Law
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Palestinian religious scholar from Gaza describes the 72 virgins that martyrs are gifted in paradise. https://t.co/ruPwg6P0dI
— Visegrád 24 (@visegrad24) February 11, 2024
.....
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Monday, 5 February 2024
Likes and Dislikes found in February 2024
February 2024
I will update this post during the month:.
Looking for that Apartheid in Israel
https://x.com/MichaelRapaport/status/1757486027453648929?s=20
UPDATE #2: Transport BSW has confirmed the license plate was registered AFTER Oct 7. They have apologised and will retract the number plate. https://t.co/wjyvIueiPP
— Freya Leach (@Freya_J_Leach) February 7, 2024
All you ever wanted to know
about Bananas
but
were afraid to ask:
These creatures 👆🏾👆🏾👆🏾
I find the choice of a side very easy in this case
.
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The sorrow of this little Jewish boy
pulls at just about all my heart strings.
News from Katie Hopkins
7. February 2024
UNWRA
Letter from a Persian Jewess
Recently I found this on eX-Twitter written by:
An Iranian Jewish refugee, peaceful activist, staunch warrior against antisemitism and Jew hate.
".....My grandfather was born in 1913 in Jubareh - the Jewish ghetto in Isfahan, #Iran.
As a child, he was prohibited from being outside when it rained. By law, if rainwater hit his “Yahud” skin the entire water supply was deemed “impure.” Punishment for violating this law was death. When he walked in the street, if his family was recognized as being #Jewish, Muslims were free to beat him and spit in his face. For more than half his life, #Zionism - the belief that Jews should have the right to self-govern their indigenous homeland - was a distant dream that he and my ancestors prayed for EVERY. SINGLE. DAY. And then one day, at 35 yrs old, that thousand year old dream became a REALITY. So go ahead and sing your catchy Antisemitic slogans. Tell the world your lies about hating “Zionists” and not “Jews” as you spread the same blood libel that kept my grandfather trapped inside the walls of a ghetto in fear of a rain shower. Rip down the posters of the babies your sadistic terrorist “freedom” rapists have locked in a cage. Scream “Intifada” until your fucking lungs are bloody. But know this. Am Yisrael is home at last. We will protect #Israel with our very last breath.
And WE WILL DESTROY anyone who tries to shove us in a ghetto again. 
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