Mister Scribbles

In theory things will probably get better, yet- The glass is falling, hour by hour, The glass will fall forever. But if you break the bloody glass You won't hold up the weather.* The glass has fallen all my life, I know it falls forever But if you cannot rake it in, it's useless being clever. Born with razor claws, or a wicked tusk? You're still outgunned by Elon Musk!   *Poem quote from Bagpipe Music , Louis MacNeice.  1938.

 Just wonderful.

31 December 192.  The Emporer Commodus is strangled in his bath by his 'wrestling partner' Narcissus, as seen in BunnyVision©. Take this, Sir, may it serve you well.   One of my first good rabbit drawings, and a favorite.  2013.

"There goes the tea bell," said Mrs. Carter. "I hope Simon hears it." They looked out from the window of the drawing room. The long garden, agreeably neglected, ended in a waste plot. Here a little summerhouse was passing close by beauty on its way to complete decay. This was Simon's retreat. It was almost completely screened by the tangled branches of the apple tree and the pear tree, planted too close together, as they always are in the suburbs. They caught a glimpse of him now and then, as he strutted up and down, mouthing and gesticulating, performing all the solemn mumbo jumbo of small boys who spend long afternoons at the forgotten ends of long gardens. "There he is, bless him!" said Betty. "Playing his game," said Mrs. Carter. "He won't play with the other children anymore. And if I go down there the temper! And comes in tired out!" "He doesn't have his sleep in the afternoons?" asked Betty. "You know

Singing The Salt Air Dead Fish Living Grave Retirement Home Blues Well, I'm going back to Austin, I got no friends down here. I'm going back to Austin, The salt air ruins my beer. If I had my druthers, I never would have gone. So I'm going home to Austin and I'm gonna tie one on! Now living here beside the bay is pretty awful strange. These rich folk make me feel real poor, in the streets the deer do range. Half the view is water, the other half is sand What radio stations I can get are best described as 'bland'. Everyone in Austin carries a guitar. From the bearded bum in traffic, to the guy behind the bar. Everyone in Austin can always find good weed, Why, the kids outside of any school will get you all you need. So I'm headed back to Austin, I most devoutly wish. Here the guys just stare at me 'cause I don't like to fish. Oh dear old Travis County, I never thought I'd say, That Colorado River would look so good today. Yep,

Whatever I had hooked it was big, I thought.  I pulled back not too hard on the line, I was using a light rig as I didn't expect to catch anything large, heck, I didn't expect to catch anything.  So when my rod bent and didn't move, of course I thought I had snagged one of the wharf pilings.  I slowly pulled on it so that I didn't break the line, and to my surprise I found I could reel in the line some.  A fish that heavy should be fighting, lord knows what I had hooked.  I dropped the rod and started pulling the line slowly, and soon it was smoothly coming my way.  Then I saw what I had hooked and was as sick as I have ever been.  The body of a fully clothed woman was bobbing in the shallow waves, my hook had caught in her dress.  I know nothing of pathology, but she had been in the water for some time.  The crabs had been at her eyes and I looked no more but called the cops, thank goodness I had phone service.  I left my rod leaning against the handrail, looped the li

  https://youtu.be/C5SuA0EKY8M The Day Of The Jackal, d. Fred Zinnemann, 1973.  Universal Pictures.

  Raw, #1.  July, 1980.  Art Spiegelman and Françoise Mouly. https://www.rsikoryak.com/ And for all you kiddies out there who have never heard of Bazooka Joe:   https://www.lambiek.net/artists/m/morse_wesley.htm

Fell asleep last night reading about Quatre Bras.  This is, well, just the idea of an English soldier.  Pay no attention to the garland of different size cannon balls.  I blame sobriety!  " Napoleon Bonaparte is regarded as one of the most successful Generals of the western world. He led a massive army to conquer half of Europe, established the Napoleonic Code, and appointed himself "Emperor" of France. But, instead of being synonymous with leadership, wit, or victory, the "Napoleon" name today means one thing to most people: A short, angry man. This is all thanks to one British artist named James Gillray, who spent years producing dozens of caricatures that attacked Napoleon. Despite never having seen or met Napoleon in person before, Gillray consistently portrayed the Emperor as a short, spiteful man who aimed to conquer other lands in order to compensate for his height. What started as a series of satirical drawings became a full-fledged prop

  The white man, leaning with both arms over the roof of the little house in the stern of the boat, said to the steersman— “We will pass the night in Arsat’s clearing. It is late.” The Malay only grunted, and went on looking fixedly at the river. The white man rested his chin on his crossed arms and gazed at the wake of the boat. At the end of the straight avenue of forests cut by the intense glitter of the river, the sun appeared unclouded and dazzling, poised low over the water that shone smoothly like a band of metal. The forests, sombre and dull, stood motionless and silent on each side of the broad stream. At the foot of big, towering trees, trunkless nipa palms rose from the mud of the bank, in bunches of leaves enormous and heavy, that hung unstirring over the brown swirl of eddies. In the stillness of the air every tree, every leaf, every bough, every tendril of creeper and every

Dad showed me this about 20 years ago when I was visiting my folks in Rockport. Ms. Mitchell was a retired schoolteacher, who, ( wait for it ) loved cats! I find this affection expressed in so fluid a manner refreshing, and in pink granite for good measure. I don't know who carved the stone but I will find out.    Death, be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so; For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me. From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be, Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow, And soonest our best men with thee do go, Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery. Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell, And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then? One short sleep past, we wake eternally And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die

Antoine Wiertz, Faim, folie, et crime .  1853.   https://www.artiststudiomuseum.org/blog/conference-antoine-wiertz-sublime-or-ridiculous/     As a shithouse rat, dad would say.