Make Of It What Ye

will.

Wish.

Wotever …          down there

 

LINE

 

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LINE

 

—and ponder for as long as it takes the meaning of the words—

“The very cutting edge of true scientific knowledge”

—and may the ancient Godses have mercy upon your whatever-it-was-those-folks-held-holy-in-their-time* .

selfie

 

 

 

 

 

Sheesh

* If it were Jesus I’ll be most impressed …

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JUST AS WELL THAT

PC, not

as a (once was) blond-headed blue-eyed white-skinned honkie Brit I’ve evolved philosophically into a non-racist.

Which is

JUST AS WELL

for me and all resembling me by accident of ancestry. Apparently, by being true-blue thoroughbred Brits we’re actually the very epitome of mongrel—so just see if I care. Honestly—I really don’t give a BRA*.  Colour, degree of tilt to the eyes, size, ancestry; all inconsiderations and non-starters.

“…The earliest Britons were black-skinned, with dark curly hair and possibly blue eyes, new analysis of a 10,000-year-old skeleton has revealed.

Scientists at the Natural History Museum have used pioneering genetic sequencing and facial reconstruction techniques to prove that the first hunter-gatherers to inhabit Britain successfully were far darker in complexion than previously thought…”

Well now. “Judge not,” says the Good Book, “lest thou be judged.” Whoops, hold on … “Judge like fury,”sayeth the Argus, “and judge thy fiends and foes by thine very own personal standards only.”  As for being judged, if the critic’s standards don’t meet or exceed my own … pfffffft to his or her opinion.

So long, of course, as those standards have value—you know, they are based on Reality. And Reality to me is behaviour—what a man does, judgement based on principles that I hold dear. (Not what the bugger says, or claims.)

But if his behaviours are based on ‘values’ I despise, I despise him**.

 

LINE

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LINE

I don’t care if he is white, black, yellow, red or polka dotted with purple patches and sepia stripes—if his behaviour is contemptible (to me) then he is contemptible; and I do not give a BRA if Daddy is a Congressman, millionaire, a queen, the Pope, or ark-angle Gabriel himself.

SO PLEASE EXCUSE ME NOW

I have to go look through my Book of Common Epithets (to use against any white honkie  bast—   racist who doesn’t like us mongr  Brits).

Back soon …

 

chimp rocks

* Big Rat’s  …

** And proud to admit it, loud and clear.

 

SELF PERPETRATING

SELF PERPETUATING

or wotever, I love ’em. Way out and whacky—not quite in the same bin as the Flat Earth (and all who sail on her) but getting there; and who can’t do with a tiny bit of wonder-based levity now and then?

SO, JUST AS THEY SAY

on labels on objects capable of mixed purposes:

“FOR AMUSEMENT ONLY”

(as if it gets ’em off the hook) I offer this webbie: down there

CLICK HERE

(or not). Once again this is an offering neither to be taken seriously nor dismissed out of hand; I offer it with the most simple codicil:

What if?

 

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“Hey, Jeez—”

“Yes, little abandoned Knitted Doll Person?”

“—I can see your house from down here …”

 

henpecked

Yeah, right … but we keep on trying …

COMIN SOON

TO A COMMUNITY

near youimages

in full glorious colour complete with bands playing, drums pounding, bugles blaring, bayonets fixed, troops marching (actually, the whole pageantry thing). We are about to indulge in the 100th anniversary of the (almost) ending of World War One; which was brought to you by the same players who gave you the updated version a couple of decades later.

I refer not to Sir Peter Jackson’s new movie (thanks for the heads-up, JZ) but to the commemorations soon to be launched.

If any are launched. There’s been precious little publicity down here thus far but in Southland if the All Blacks aren’t visiting or our southern netball team of gorgeous maidens—

Sting, not ....png

—on centre stage it isn’t a consideration. WW1 is ancient history now, good only for the occasional politician to lay some flowers and shed a few tears (in public) whenever the need becomes urgent.

AND IF YOU MISSED

out on the current war (wherever it is*) don’t fret. Another will be along soon, then you too can gallop off in wild-eyed enthusiasm to your nearest Recruiting Office. So in the meantime get thee along hence to a cinema. It certainly looks different:

And as Jackson explained in an interview —

“I wanted to reach through the fog of time and pull these men into the modern world, so they can regain their humanity once more–rather than be seen only as Charlie Chaplin-type figures in the vintage archive film.”

Humanise them? Good heavens, don’t do that!

Leave ’em in their scratchy ranks chasing trench-lice and drowning in mud for Chrissakes! Let ’em remain nice safe caricatures at a far far remove … Lest We Forget lest we become a bit uncomfortable. Lest we wake up.

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There.

That’s better! Just names on a a granitey thing; now we can all get back to real life … takeaway latté, anyone?

dodododododododododododododododododo

* Is, or will be …

THEN and NOW

MAKE OF IT

active service copyWHAT WE MAY:

The Invercargill library supplies these gems. (Knowing Southland and its desperate push for Social Conformity I suspect that despite the apparent ‘Resonance of Truth’ they may just not be the real thing—but who knows?) …

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AND OSTENSIBLY GOING BACK

to the heady days of wild enthusiasm for the First World War when guys just couldn’t wait to get out of the colony and go get their bits blown o— go do their ‘bit’ for King and the Mother Country:

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I’ve often wondered if any survivors/returnees didn’t toddle around to their local recruitment booths/recruiting officers and explain to them what it was really all about~?

Then again I suppose; any war is a good war if you get home with the souvenir bottle of plonk …

down there

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In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

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WE ARE COMING UP

to the 100th anniversary of the signing of the WW1 Armistice. (In hindsight they should have held out for a total surrender.)

So we will have yet another huge bunfight with corks popping, bugles (trumpets down here—no bugger can play no bugle no more) fireworks, marches, and other jolly stuff. Heroes will be bleated with dewy eyes, gallantry mentioned lots and no mention of buggers drowning in gassy mud-filled shell-holes …

A Flanders field must be a restless place

dodo

RECENTLY

I POSTED

on the maudlin theme of Time (passing). I posted shots of the old High School in New Zealand’s wee town of Gore—

https://cassandric.wordpress.com/2018/09/14/not-to-be-maudlin/

—and promised you the girlie version. So without further ado, here we be—

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As ’twas back then (when? Undated … how the heck would I know, but it has the authentic look of pre-television days). Then again, it could almost be late sixties … brrr.

I don’t think this is all the girls so it might be just the graduation class, plus prefects? All a bit too complicated for this old dog.

AND FROM MEMORY

Because I’d forgotten to take my prints (burgled from the Gore High School website) with me I had to shoot from memory (but this time I got it a bit better than the boys’ version ref’d above):

girlzone mod.png

If you read my posts you’ll know that I’m fascinated by change and Time. Okay, rehash that: by apparent change (and what we think of as ‘time’).

I suspect that the shot I’ve loosely labelled as ‘girls’ might very much be early sixties, but who knows?

Big G, bigger

“Argus~!”

(Oops … not again …)

“Yes, your Godship?”

“Take my advice with respect to ‘time’, Dog … don’t go there—”

“Too close to home, Sir?”

“Damn! Er … ya wanna join MY team, Dog?”

“Sorry Sir. It’s a wonderful offer, but I can’t afford the lobotomy …”

dodo

THE OTHER

NEW ZEALAND, THAT

nobody dare mention …

 

devil-2

FIRST

your snippet—

A classic car club stopped to take in the sights of Taharoa were chased out of the remote Waikato town by local Māori threatening to shoot them and bash their cars if they didn’t leave.”

Sourced:  CLICK HERE 

I know where these ‘victims’ are coming from—I was driving The Spouse through lovely Southland along a less frequented coastal road fairly recently. We thought it was just another country road but the further we went the less and less welcome we felt. If body language speaks, and if the ‘vibes’ can convey meaning—we felt vibed. Really bad juju—

—Maori country.

We turned about and left. At speed. Whatever the history books may say, whatever the state of the State propaganda, whatever the Public Face of this “We are all one people now!” nation—if ever you come here: be careful.

Sure, ‘we’ took their land. (Yes, that’s what kids are taught in kiwi schools—that the nice cuddly native folks are the victims here. Brrrrrr …)

THEY MAKE A BIG

thing of repatriating some of the many Maori souvenir heads (that found their way overseas a few generations back as legitimate souvenirs—souvenirs bought and paid for with no thought of how they were converted from living breathing human beings into grimacing processed mementos).

FOR SOME REASON

those goods once profitably exported as tourist junk have now become Sacred Ancestral Relics—proof indeed, of the utter savagery of the (mostly British, of course) seamen and others who purchased them … on the open market …

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A collector ....pngRobley (tourist above) took souvenirs seriously

BEING MAORI

these days is Big Business, a source of income based on pure Theatre.

Theatre rules across the board, from the opportunistic ‘haka’ at sporting events to the welcoming home of processed heads—

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—and I imagine that at ground floor level some of the players are actually sincere.

read more:  click here 

AS FOR ME

I simply stay away from Maori areas.

Racist? No … survivalist. I value, if not my life, my hub-caps … so I shan’t try to go surfing up north.

Or in the deep south … or west …

free marketeers haggling

NZ Souvenir stall 17-1800s

selfie