Archive for April, 2012|Monthly archive page

La Concha

I live below a cubistic looking mountain, about the size of Mont Sainte-Victoire, Cézanne’s redoubt.


It wasn’t painted by Braque or Picasso, but in the ever changing light of day appears that way, delineated against the endless sky, an anchor, seemingly altering its appearance every hour, it’s sharp yet subtle angles stacked upon each other, reaching for its own Matterhorn-shaped top.


Flat planets are dead planets. There would be no life on earth without constant volcanic action added to solar heat: humanity following flora and fauna in their footsteps, the last one to join the biological fray, and why I cannot live without my mountain, my life, itself child of tectonic might, tenderly watching over me.


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Clazy Plicks!

Last year around this time, I posted this:


Tell me it isn’t true: A Chinese friend of mine here in southern Spain wants to open a restaurant he threatens to call, The Wok of Gibraltar


Now his cheeky nextdoor neighbour Richard is menacing to open a steak house, called Angus Dei…


Download Anthony Steyning’s international intrigue E-novel: A Kiss by the Clowns

Not For Giraffes

Modern car design with super-low, slanting down roofs, is absolutely great for people who don’t have a neck.


download Anthony Steyning’s mid-atlantic E-Novel: A Kiss by the Clowns

Norway (I)

Insanity literally means: unhealthiness.


If some condition’s being unhealthy doesn’t apply to you, at least be aware it may cause horrendous pain to others.


Ignoring the pain of others is insensitive and anti-social.


Ignorance applied deliberately, is criminal.


Aberrant conviction leading to the casual murder of others is more than unhealthy, it is an expression of insanity.


Insanity either is a mainly incurable mental illness, or the corrupt denial of God-given intelligence i.e. one’s very humanity.


Insanity sufferers have to be humanely locked away, at the expense of the rest of society, not put into robes and uniforms, let alone allowed to stand on ceremonial balconies.


For he who forsakes his human intelligence lowers himself back into the animal kingdom, where he gets destroyed.


A panther indiscriminately striking in the night will do so again and again. It is not criminal, it is unintelligent and unfed. If it attacks us though, no one is blamed for shooting it.


For there is no panther heaven. There is no panther hell. There are only dead panthers, at one point. 


Mayan’s tearing living hearts out, Sunnis bombing Shi’ites, men pushing hundreds of their like out of high flying military airplanes, camp-guards turning on the ovens, soldiers bayonetting crying children to death, narcotics dealers beheading their way ahead, Norwegians gunning down teenagers as a ‘concept’, are inhuman and exponentially insane.


The quickest way then to see that a man is animal, inhuman, sickly, criminal, is by taking note that to him nothing is repugnant! No act repulsive enough!


The key words! Words to remember, words to avoid! Words animals don’t know!


Still, the banality of evil will have it these humanoids always take their coffee with two lumps, not three.


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Forgive Me?

When poor bastards who while on earth found themselves deformed, often belittled, ridiculed, ostracised, in constant pain and despair, through no fault of their own trapped in a weak body or in possession of a damaged mind… when these victims of being arrive in heaven, does God, I wonder, apologise?


Download Anthony Steyning’s epic new E-Novel: A Kiss by the Clowns


Hippopotamus is Greek for River Horse; we call them Hippos.


So why don’t we make things easier, by calling kangaroos… Hoppos?


Download Anthony Steyning’s spellbinding E-Novel: A Kiss by the Clowns

Kirchner (I)

Last week President Cristina Kirchner made it known in all seriousness that she is nationalising a key local branch of the Spanish REPSOL oil company, YPF, as Argentina’s pay back to Spain for the conquistadores having stolen all its gold and silver, centuries ago.


The problem with this incongruous, somewhat infantine excuse is that Mrs Fernandez de Kirchner descends from the very, subsequent settlers not also merely stealing gold and silver from local tribes, but massacring them, taking the whole bloody country as it were, by way of massive genocide.


 So to be morally consistent and to show theft is not in her blood, she should now also start Argentinian devolution to the few remaining native Toba and Mapuche Indians, today subsisting under cruel conditions.


Whereupon the Mohawks can re-take Manhattan, all Anglo-Saxons get thrown out of England and Astérix re-grabs his chunk of Roman Empire.


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April in Paris

Nice guys come last, is the apt American axiom!


As well they should, if this is their only atout!


Spain just got rid of one smiling goof, who thought that whatever stupidity he repeated was profound, as long as he frowned. Not surprisingly he was astonished the ship of State sank on his watch. He blamed the storm, not himself and his crew, in denial about everything he was appointed skipper for and qualified for the job like my sister Molly, except for one small detail: at least she doesn’t self-delude!


You don’t have to be in love with him, but France would be mad if it didn’t re-elect Sarkozy. The Socialists should not be elected because it is their turn, they should be elected because they produced what seems like a highly competent candidate. Instead what they have is the weakest, indecisive, unqualified candidate they could find in the person of François Hollande, a really nice guy, but a party hack who never ran anything, not even a fruit store.


France will have to make some hard choices and address its staggering public debt, just as a tough little guy would finally get this opportunity, by not having to worry about a new term, hands free to do this dirty, but for the future of the Nation, imperative job. At a later date re-defined somewhat by Socialists as they’re not the ones who ideologically speaking could initiate any such enterprise, or risk getting called traitors by their own.



The tail can never wag the dog, but a futile attempt at which is all that Monsieur Hollande would seem capable of.


Download Anthony Steyning’s part-Parisian E-Novel: A Kiss by the Clowns

Red Deams!

Now that the incurable police romantic Vladimir Putin had his facelift, he truly looks more and more like a Mongol.

I’m not saying this is bad, but it underlines the fact that the Slav is closer to the East than to Celt and Saxon, and may explain his manic obstinacy.

Democracy, in Russia, is a fallacy; there are only more warning shots than before!

This what I posted some time ago and still applies. Take the trouble of downloading the magnificent 50’s movie Sunset Boulevard, and see what I mean! The resemblances are uncanny and a perfect metaphor for what still prevails in Moscow and beyond, urbi et orbi:


Sunset Prospekt


(Chandeliers & Quiet Vitriol)

She’s imperious, she sulks a lot, she has a great dramatic past, she used to be loved and admired by millions but has been in limbo, stuck in a time warp, great in theory only, left behind somewhat. Her mansion is vast, her mementos full of dust, her gardens need work, her servant once married to her, opens the door to her self-loathing lover and killing him should the visitor show her respect, but not enough.

Posturing of anger, of madness, of passion, she a living shrine adored perhaps not for herself but for the very need to adore by those needing to belong. For when deep down one’s the subject of contempt, one pre-emptively out-loves, pretending the lady doesn’t know what she’s doing, her denial an anomaly needing to be corrected. Surgically if necessary and should that fail, attacking her doctors of course.

Sounds like Billy Wilder’s fabulous 1950 film noir classic Sunset Boulevard, doesn’t it? Making us recall Norma Desmond, the jaded star magnificently played by Gloria Swanson, attended to by Max von Mayerling, her silent, vaguely satanic butler and ex-husband brought to life by Erich von Stroheim who keeps a close pulse on the failed writer Joe Gillis played by William Holden, caught in their net. But it’s Mother Russia that I’m alluding to, the Queen Bee to her jealous lover, the KGB (FSB). Protecting her, killing her with kindness, feeding her delusions, forging her fan mail, murdering for her, ignoring her mind and heart, profoundly convinced only it knows what is good for her while keeping her locked in and up. An obscure and violent romanticism on the part of people appointed by her, paid by her, those quietly ferocious servants from hell, the professional incest palpable. People who looked like Boris Karloff, faces like dogs, but more recently sleeker, on the surface kinder, even elegant yet still chafing under suspicions brought on by ancient complexes. A layer of super-patriots in and out of uniform, collectively called Max for the sake of this article and making it so nobody in that nation is ever really, really in command.

Can you imagine her? Can you see her striking out, but also at herself, lice deeply embedded in her pelt? That is Russia! And where they come from nobody knows, but certain national characteristics seem to develop as if the germ of them is lodged in local drinking water. Of course, you could blame it all on the indiscriminate terror of Czarist police over hundreds of years, but paranoia and heavy-handed reaction to it seem ingrained in the national psyche and Czars or not, must have slowly started with the people themselves because everything always does. Including rejection of expressions of the sort, rejection that did take place in other parts of Europe, terror reigning in most of Europe most of one time, originating in many corners, in many areas like in Robespierre’s France, Cromwell’s England and under Ferdinand II’s Holy Spanish Inquisition, but none turning into the type of cruel national fatalism and paranoia Russia exhibits at all levels, right up till today.

And why she reminds me of Norma, and the KGB (FSB) of Max, agreeing not only that ‘She used to be big!’ but with the timeless paraphrased retort ‘She still is! It’s the world that got smaller!’, and Joe the would-be but forever-menaced lover, perhaps portraying the West.

Download Anthony Steyning’s inimitable new E-Novel: A Kiss by the Clowns


It is widely reported, except in Spain of course, that King Juan Carlos shot right up the skirt of wild Corinna zu Sayn-Wittgenstein, back at the lodge, while hunting in Botswana. How he fell off her and hurt his hip is a mystery, as short heights should not be an obstacle for one so high born.


And what about those earlier pictures of him, kneeling between two buffalos that he killed?


And now this dead Elephant, Majesty of the Savannah, hurt or in panic trying to climb a tree after getting shot by another Majesty, a human one, with un-royal habits!


But apart from being big, what kind of a shot is Juan Carlos?


Shooting elephants and buffalos… Isn’t that like bagging parked cars?


Better stick it to savage Corinna, but think of the nation: easy, easy… Sire!


Download Anthony Steyning’s terrific new E-Novel: A Kiss by the Clowns


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