Monday 25th of May 2020

no escape...

no escape...   The name Pluto, the god of the underworld, was proposed for a new planet, by Venetia Burney, an eleven-year-old schoolgirl in Oxford, England, who was interested in classical mythology. 

 

She suggested it to her grandfather Falconer Madan, a former librarian at the University of Oxford, who passed the name to astronomy professor Herbert Hall Turner, who transmitted it to colleagues in the United States. The name Pluto travelled like a virus… Then, Pluto, with an out-of-kilter orbit, was relegated to being a mere planetoid in a chain of solar system debris, the Kuiper belt…



On this site, one of his other names has been used: Hades (also referring to his kingdom). Pluto — Dis, Hades, Orcus, Aïdoneus — depending on the country of origin — was appointed by the other gods as the keeper of the dead and of riches, as precious minerals are found deep in the earth. The son of Cronus and Rhea, Pluto inspired great fear amongst men who prayed to never see his face, especially when digging for gold. Once in Pluto’s realm, one could never get out, unless your name was Dante… 

In this time of Covfefe and Covid19, the world we know is slowly sliding towards the shithouses of Hades:

"To the shades you go down-hill, easy way ;
But to return and re-enjoy the day,
This is a work, a labour!”

                     Virgil


To the ancients, Hades was a complex world of various levels of joy and pain, with rivers of tears from criminals condemned to hard labour in Tartarus, the place reserved for the wicked. Everyone went to Pluto’s domain. No heaven in the sky, but a final destination for the living where one remembered nothing.

“Lethe, the river of oblivion, rolls
Her wat’ry labyrinth, whereof who drinks
Forthwith his former state and being forgets,
Forgets both joy and grief, pleasure and pain.”

                            Milton


Three women (of course) gods, the Furies, drove the dead with lashes from their whips, to the gates of Tartarus. Where's Bettina to defend the men, when you need one? No pity, but hard hearts and mercilessness — as the avengers of crimes on the surface of earth as well. Remember Charlie’s Angels… Should you be a crook, you would eventually get one of their high-heel boots in your throat. Nemesis was the goddess of revenge. Heaven can wait.

Now, in our world of fairness and sharing (please, don’t snigger), it appears we’re all sinners and being punished... We have to share the burden of dealing with the Covfefe Covid19 infection together. We are closing the borders, we have run out of toilet paper — and may the hoarders of such, perish by being struck by Nemesis. Already our own nemesis, Peter Dutton has promised to these uncouth people to be hit by a ton of bricks. We are in good hands, even if we get suspicious of everyone, including our friends, but especially of the governments, though some journos sing the Scomo praises, like an Angelus.

So, our economy is going down the gurgler. As Virgil said: "But to return and re-enjoy the day, This is a work, a labour!” It’s going to be a hard road for the living. The rich hit in the hip-pocket will survive nonetheless in their tax-less “heavens", while the poor will need more hand-outs… Both classes will be resented by the misering middle-bourgeois who, by a stroke of hard-working luck, managed to keep the wheel of the treadmill going — infecting more waiters and actors in Newtown (or Venice) than ducks in the ponds of Centennial Park(Lands), by keeping the rent of shops and cafés as high a possible. Our Prime ad-Minister, Scott Morrison — advertising guru with a so-so resumé of having being sacked for being crap — loved by the rich and despised by the poor, will solve this Covfefe-Covid19 event with the skills of a Moses parting the waters of the Styx — the river of tears. There is going to be plenty of that.

We already had our hell in the bushfires, we have had our floods (so fierce, even Noah and his family of evolved monkeys would have drowned), we’ve have had our banking GFC fiddles that showed the ruthlessness of the dark value of money — and now we’re hit with an opportunistic virus. With no intent to kill us, this thingy does it by its own accidental evolution from the wild into the human psyche. 

As Italy, the land of the god Pluto and of hundreds of NATO bases, surpasses the trauma of the cradle of the Coronavirus, China, we can only fear everything and everyone. In Australia, we’ll be saved by using the famous Aussie salute (used to chase flies and greet sweaty visitors) instead of shaking hands alla Americano or Europeanly kissing men. 

Good luck in your isolation or quarantine.

       “Where his decrees
The guilty souls within the burning gates
Of Tartanus compel, or send the good
To inhabit, with eternal health and peace,
The valley of Elysium.”

                           Akenside

protection...

protection

 

Cartoon at top and above from MAD magazine... number 179...

journal of an old kook...

 

31 March 2021. 6:17 AM

Despite a few people still busy trying to save the world, like flies in a jar, it feels like the earth has been standing still for a year now. The automaton machines are over-producing the Novaquine and their drones are delivering the packets at regular intervals. Our reserve of baked beans is coming to an end. The magpie and the merl have not sung yet. It feels cold as the days are getting shorter thus the earth is still spinning on its axis. In the northern hemisphere, they must have wild fires and plagues of locusts by now. 

The southern summer 2020-21 was a scorcher. No air conditioning and many of the oldies in parking lots known as retirement villages have gone to better pastures, where the angels and the bats are white like pure snow… Snow?…

I will sweep away man and beast;
I will sweep away the birds of the sky
And the fish of the sea.
I will make the wicked stumble,
And I will destroy mankind
From the face of the earth"

                  — says Zephaniah 1: 3... 

What does this mean? A fool wrote this 2,619 years ago...

Tomorrow is April First… April Fool’s day… The joke as been long-ish since last April Fool… The small garden has been invaded by sweet potato vines. I don’t mind. I make gin out of this triffid. It helps soothe the nasty taste of the preventative medicine — as if gin, or turps would soothe anything. The food delivery service, meals-on-wheels, stopped yesterday. The portions were getting smaller, the bicycles had shrunk as well, because only kids under six could do the rounds… And there were less and less of them, kids. Same with the bicycles...

The news of the planet are the same as yesterday that were the same as the day before… Everything changed on April First 2020 and they’ve stayed the same ever since, except worse. News? Possibly and old record becoming older and only available on the wind-up radio made from an old vacuum cleaner rewinding coil attached to a small light generator from a pre-WW2 bicycle, that I found in the garden once at 03: 49 hours. I'm not allowed out during the day. Only the generator and a mud guard had survived that last police chase. I’m still handy with these things.

Time for my morning coffee… Well, I’m lucky. I still recycle the dregs from cups made six months ago. It’s a ritual. We still need rituals, don’t we? Like doing the rounds of the kitchen at 2:00 AM and smashing the roaches with the same old newspaper, a Daily Telegraph from 1/04/1982...

Boiling the water is a bit hard. I’m running out of furniture to burn and the water that prostatically drips from the taps looks suspiciously like coming from the brew from an exposed antique Telstra pit in which the old copper wires have decomposed and rats relieve themselves. I use the liquid from the water tanks sparingly considering it hasn’t rained for the last six months. I add a bit of my home-made gin...

Relief is coming.

digging a hole that is not a grave...

escape

 

For once Warren gets me crying with laughter... Yes, the home and the retirement village has turned into Long Bay Jail... We, oldies, managed to escape through the tunnels of prisoner war camps — except those of Stalag 13, under the iron fist of Colonel Klink — to be cooped up like old chooks until the compassion of the young ones runs out, or becomes so intense, they deliver the final blow in an act of mercy. Either way, we're stuffed. May as well get some lollies...

 

Read from top.

I can't believe it !....

This one if for the oldies who are cooped up at home or in the nursery... er, I mean retirement village, oldies with "One Foot in the Grave". Get the staff or a visiting young person (one per customer in these days of coronavirus) to either tune your SMART TV to YouTube or give you a new computer if your TV is as old as you are. And thank them for that bottle of Sherry. You preferred Scotch but anything with alcohol will do. If you are a believer and cannot go to your favourite place of worship, you may need to revise your catechism with some help. Here it is...

 

This episode of "Father Ted" is sponsored by Feck Arse, Irish makers of optical charts for opticians. Test your own eyes on the chart:

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=00lFMSorVhk

 

feck

 

Read from top. Aren't we told often enough that LAUGHTER IS THE BEST MEDICINE?...