Say It With Flowers

In my Greek travels, including a few very exciting excursions to the TV stadium, I came across Narkissos the wall flower. Greek myths are fuller of wisdom than mere humans, considering this selfish self-obsessed selfie on legs who fell head first into a body of water polluted by his own image. To be sure Beauty is only skin-deep; the Beastly is close by.

Victims of narcissists easily get them under their skin like parasites, and just like in the myth they may become a shadow of themselves like the graceful nymph Echo - but never forget if you're an unfortunate sufferer of echolalia that a shadowy ghost can also be a malicious, facetious and spirited poltergeist.

Nemesis punished Narkissos by giving him a dose of his own poisonous obsession, drowned in his own shallow water, rippling his own distorted reflection. I have heard narcissists to be defined as dead within, and therefore immune and indifferent to the distress they cause others to perpetuate their mobile. Here, I just invented eco-friendly dumping, mentally dumping the mythically dead flower in the water to safely recycle the rot, it is always better than fly-tipping raw sewage or industrial waste. Having been confronted many times to such garbage, I went on a fishing expedition on the blessed Net where I found a lot on offer in the way of self-help literature, read self-defence of the mind: narcs have an unsolved, incurable, ingrained attachment problem with an indifferent caregiver, read problem with Mom and Dad, so the best way with them is to apply a homeopathic dose of indifference to them. Kill off what kills you without doing twenty years upstate, and be ruthless with the lethal threat. It's you or them. Destroying the destroyer does feel good, Nemesis promises you that elation. She is the Ancient mother-vaccine.

Working along the principles of homeopathy, and this being said with an absolute willingness to turn age-old contention into a constructive outcome for persons in need of mental support, I was lucky enough to discover the marvels of Anatolian (Western Turkish) alternative rock-and-roll with the fragrant Baris Mandco as a hallmark (AAAAARGGGHH, guess who comes to dinner tonight). I can afford this move, I have some Anatolian connection through my Etruscan ancestry, and some Greek ancestry as well, so yes, Mister Camembert President, racialisation can be good as an end, if you are in the know and the how rather than in the all-Fed (up), all Big Guv'n'men uber alles. The Lord help us all with such around. My move is all about bringing a tiny dose of elements normally not agreeing with each other to neutralise the disease, the deadly enemy, the narcs. I could equally say it with acanthi and tulips. I could also say it with Epaminondas Remoundakis, the leper-lawyer fighting off the cold Northern Frank, the ''Schismatic'' who insisted on cutting leprosy sufferers off the world in a bid to make a big splash. He couldn't consolidate his repute otherwise, by finding a cure for example. So his answer was to toss them like pieces of unwanted rubble into the sea - with the help of the Greek government of the time. I don't care that this carabin worked something worth the mentioning with Danlos, at the end of the day, he dropped the sick dead in the water the same way humans dump a load in the closet. Disgusting.

Match of the day:

Baris Mandcho: Wins

Epaminondas Remoundakis: Wins

Narcs: Lost at see

Let us pause and have a grateful thought for Nemesis, who perhaps was only and especially so a view of the human transcendental mind, as were 70's Turkish alternative rock-and-roll musicians and Greek law-makers in their twenties. Indifference kills; listen to The Silence of the Sea, and pack off the invasive Narcs to the East as in Pontos Euxenios, originally the hostile, Eastern body of water that became so friendly over time it got renamed the Black Sea; the eye is in the tomb and stares at Cain. It is Victor Hugo, the one of Les Mis and of The Hunchback of Notre-Dame who signed off this fine line. In the same spirit I particularly enjoyed the I.S. transcription of Victor Hugo's funeral - I.S. as in International Socialist, https//isreview.org. Their kiss-and-tail account of the lamentable funeral of the poor man, duly dubbed in the process ''a bourgeois writer'' with the usual originality is rich in graphic and sadly true details, ''drunken bodies'' littering Parisian streets and public decency being outraged around every block to celebrate the life - and death - of the most famous French sacred monster, and to bury a 19th century of ''undefined ideals''. I applied my blooming homeopathic method to the champion of the good people's cause as dyed by the Pinkies, as I see Hugo as an author who tried so hard to social-climb onto the tallest state-sponsored soap-box he now cleans out as the epitome of fire and brimstone al fresco preachers. Meanwhile Nemesis hides in the Park, circling the circle with yet another Jericho in the pocket. The Lucky Fluke shoots faster than her shadow, Narcs U Go! And the English footie fans jolly jump to the beat, in their innocent post-pandemic joy.