Monthly Archives: December 2007

Some Certain Things To Consider.

The Hare said that “Come Winter, this cold and lonely time, it is a useful thing indeed to remind ourselves of the eternal Certainties:”

  • Time scratches at our backs.
  • The health of a hedgehog can be determined by the wriggliness of his nose. He has a soft underside.
  • We are running out of pages in our diaries.
  • No-one is permitted to read them, and no-one wants to, unless you tell them it is not permitted.
  • The butterfly roars in its cage, like a lion.  
  • As the hammer is taken to the manikin in the (emptied) fishtank, a birthday candle distorts grotesquely as it’s waxen body melts.
  • It is fashioned into the likeness of a popular cartoon character…
  • What to be done with these inconsequential wonders?
  • Mother, when will you understand that my every word is not a demand, and that I am capable of starting my own conversation…
  • Charlie Chaplain and Einstein were, once and always, the same person.
  • To wake up every morning, with a gift under one’s tree.
  • Apples, Apples, Strawberries.
  • The stork makes the cherry the most narrative of fruits.
  • The poet who equates eroticism with fruit metaphors, is a sad and lonely man. Here, have a peach.
  • The Gate is opened by the Monk who does not close it. He kindly leads three blind mice up the path.
Photo by Nader Davoodi. source 
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How to Buy Things (Properly): Peter And The Hare’s Christmas Guideplan.

It’s that time of year again – the time when it is  22:41 GMT in England on the 11th Décembre 2007 and my fancy is to write something about Christmas.

Christmas is a time of giving; Christmas for the Hare can happen at any given moment, and often pops up on him unexpectedly. He usually invites his friends* to his “anywhere-house” (a great feat of nomadic architecture), to exchange with them a variety of fresh fruits, beverages, wicker animal sculptures, sounds, spells and bodily fluids.

Being a Human who is eternally confined to the limitations of the tiranical Capitalism, however, you may prefer to exchange more “conventional” gifts, in your silly little “somewhere-houses” made of brick which, contrary to popular belief, can be demolished by Big Bad Wolves whenever they please. With this in mind, we present a guide that will make your Festive “shopeing” pass with the minimum level of pain you are required to suffer by the Capitalist System and those horrid places known as “cities.”

“Gifts” are sorted by the family member who is least likely to want them.  

1. GRANDMOTHER:

You think your GRANDMOTHER wants an “i-pod”? no, she doesn’t, you fool. It does not even play WMAs, and the cheapest one doesn’t even have an LCD display! What are you thinking? You are not thinking right. To buy for GRANDMOTHER, you must buy what GRANDMOTHER desires.

 She has not fulfilled her childish dreams.

BUY HER:

Adidos Georgia Bulldogs Toddler 2-Piece Cheerleader Dress

(For “GRANDFATHER“, as above – subtract vagina and breasts.)

2. BROTHER

Your BROTHER is bigger and stronger, and he beats you.

BUY HIM:

Dreamel 1200-02 Glue Gun Kit With Bag

Glue his eyelids shut, while he is sleeping. He will never wake up. Now YOU can do the beating! That is the sound of a lesson being learnt!

3. SISTER

The one they call “SISTER”. How fair is she? You love her often, and better than the Moon. One automatically thinks of lingerie, but this year you will use your imagination. Something to watch her? She will be flattered. But wait, “…music be the side-order of sisterly love”, so wrote Shakespeare. 

That being the case, there is something which will work like treacle in the event of a  below-balcony serenade…

BUY HER:

Schoenengut “Fancy Baby” Grand Piano – Red

Sweet music will deafen us

to the wilting dream,

the silent cries,

the broken mirror,

the bent Narcissus.
 

4. MOTHER

Oh Mother, Mother, Mother…

Blood, Mother?

Blood!

BUY HER:

tudor dolls set

Plush Brown 13″ Moving Head Mother


Complete Set, With:

  • Mother Owl
  • Infant Owl
  • Magpie
  • Tudor Playroom

(Cannot be Returned)

5. FATHER (le nom du père):

We do not speak to FATHER, FATHER speaks to us.

BUY HIM:

An His Master's Voice Monarch Gramophone, with Oak Case and Fluted Oak Horn, circa 1911 Fine Art Giclee Poster Print, 30x40Eyeballs Gumballs

 

 

 

Gramophone, Eyeballs and Cane

 

 

 Now you have satisfied all your family’s lusts and desires.

But have you? Beware, if they are not grateful, they will assassinate your character, and/or terminate your very existence on this Earth. They will question your ability to do anything with success. They will not trust you with so much as a spoon. ‘Afore you know it, they will subject you to the misery of The Workhouse, or else The Mines.

If the dread of this overcomes you, and you –  tossing eternally in your restless bed of Night – cannot sleep, for fear of dreams, then perhaps you might seek solace in this, which in popular vernacular is referred to as a “Self-Help” Book:
 

You're Too Wonderful To Die

Happy “Shopeing” This Yuletide Season! Merrily Ye Go! Submit To The Wayward Cities, and The Evils Of The “Factories”!

*René, Maggie, Nathan, Dmitri, Jim, Ghislain, Rita and The Great Hallucinomos

In the Workhouse: Christmas Day, by George R Sims [1877]

It is Christmas Day in the workhouse,
And the cold, bare walls are bright
With garlands of green and holly,
Ad the place is a pleasant sight;
For with clean-washed hands and faces,
In a long and hungry line
The paupers sit at the table,
For this is the hour they dine.

And the guardians and their ladies,
Although the wind is east,
Have come in their furs and wrappers,
To watch their charges feast;
To smile and be condescending,
Put pudding on pauper plates.
To be hosts at the workhouse banquet
They’ve paid for — with the rates.

Oh, the paupers are meek and lowly
With their “Thank’ee kindly, mum’s!'”
So long as they fill their stomachs,
What matter it whence it comes!
But one of the old men mutters,
And pushes his plate aside:
“Great God!” he cries, “but it chokes me!
For this is the day she died!”

The guardians gazed in horror,
The master’s face went white;
“Did a pauper refuse the pudding?”
“Could their ears believe aright?”
Then the ladies clutched their husbands,
Thinking the man would die,
Struck by a bolt, or something,
By the outraged One on high.

But the pauper sat for a moment,
Then rose ‘mid silence grim,
For the others had ceased to chatter
And trembled in every limb.
He looked at the guardians’ ladies,
Then, eyeing their lords, he said,
“I eat not the food of villains
Whose hands are foul and red:

“Whose victims cry for vengeance
From their dark, unhallowed graves.”
“He’s drunk!” said the workhouse master,
“Or else he’s mad and raves.”
“Not drunk or mad,” cried the pauper,
“But only a haunted beast,
Who, torn by the hounds and mangled,
Declines the vulture’s feast.

“I care not a curse for the guardians,
And I won’t be dragged away;
Just let me have the fit out,
It’s only on Christmas Day
That the black past comes to goad me,
And prey on my burning brain;
I’ll tell you the rest in a whisper —
I swear I won’t shout again.

“Keep your hands off me, curse you!
Hear me right out to the end.
You come here to see how paupers
The season of Christmas spend;.
You come here to watch us feeding,
As they watched the captured beast.
Here’s why a penniless pauper
Spits on your paltry feast.

“Do you think I will take your bounty,
And let you smile and think
You’re doing a noble action
With the parish’s meat and drink?
Where is my wife, you traitors —
The poor old wife you slew?
Yes, by the God above me,
My Nance was killed by you!

‘Last winter my wife lay dying,
Starved in a filthy den;
I had never been to the parish —
I came to the parish then.
I swallowed my pride in coming,
For ere the ruin came,
I held up my head as a trader,
And I bore a spotless name.

“I came to the parish, craving
Bread for a starving wife,
Bread for the woman who’d loved me
Through fifty years of life;
And what do you think they told me,
Mocking my awful grief,
That ‘the House’ was open to us,
But they wouldn’t give ‘out relief’.

“I slunk to the filthy alley —
‘Twas a cold, raw Christmas Eve —
And the bakers’ shops were open,
Tempting a man to thieve;
But I clenched my fists together,
Holding my head awry,
So I came to her empty-handed
And mournfully told her why.

“Then I told her the house was open;
She had heard of the ways of that,
For her bloodless cheeks went crimson,
and up in her rags she sat,
Crying, ‘Bide the Christmas here, John,
We’ve never had one apart;
I think I can bear the hunger —
The other would break my heart.’

“All through that eve I watched her,
Holding her hand in mine,
Praying the Lord and weeping,
Till my lips were salt as brine;
I asked her once if she hungered,
And as she answered ‘No’ ,
T’he moon shone in at the window,
Set in a wreath of snow.

“Then the room was bathed in glory,
And I saw in my darling’s eyes
The faraway look of wonder
That comes when the spirit flies;
And her lips were parched and parted,
And her reason came and went.
For she raved of our home in Devon,
Where our happiest years were spent.

“And the accents, long forgotten,
Came back to the tongue once more.
For she talked like the country lassie
I woo’d by the Devon shore;
Then she rose to her feet and trembled,
And fell on the rags and moaned,
And, ‘Give me a crust — I’m famished —
For the love of God!’ she groaned.

“I rushed from the room like a madman
And flew to the workhouse gate,
Crying, ‘Food for a dying woman!’
And the answer came, ‘Too late.’
They drove me away with curses;
Then I fought with a dog in the street
And tore from the mongrel’s clutches
A crust he was trying to eat.

“Back through the filthy byways!
Back through the trampled slush!
Up to the crazy garret,
Wrapped in an awful hush;
My heart sank down at the threshold,
And I paused with a sudden thrill.
For there, in the silv’ry moonlight,
My Nance lay, cold and still.

“Up to the blackened ceiling,
The sunken eyes were cast —
I knew on those lips, all bloodless,
My name had been the last;
She called for her absent husband —
O God! had I but known! —
Had called in vain, and, in anguish,
Had died in that den — alone.

“Yes, there, in a land of plenty,
Lay a loving woman dead,
Cruelly starved and murdered
for a loaf of the parish bread;
At yonder gate, last Christmas,
I craved for a human life,
You, who would feed us paupers,
What of my murdered wife!”

‘There, get ye gone to your dinners,
Don’t mind me in the least,
Think of the happy paupers
Eating your Christmas feast;
And when you recount their blessings
In your smug parochial way,
Say what you did for me, too,
Only last Christmas Day.”

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