Copyright 2022 James LaFond
A Crackpot Book, Publisher: Lynn Lockhart
Dust Cover
An experiment in reluctant journalism by a gaslit novelist traveling, visiting and writing in the navel of the Transhuman Collective. The author, upon reaching his former home of Maryland as civic health mandates are lifted in Mid-Spring of 2022, finds himself immersed in a Covidian cult matrix, a voluntary collective worship of a two year old Myth, constructed openly of lies and yet utterly embraced as an overarching all-truth.
In The Third Year of Our Lord Floyd, the rampant gaslight of Post-American Cultism in the Eastern United States of Cuckmenistan, interferes mightily with the focus necessary for the novelist and the historical writer. I have abandoned my earlier, two-month at a time journal writing scheme in favor of this book, which, if successfully neglected, will span a mere 40 pages. I am trying NOT to write about impressions of the people, places and things that I encounter, in a bid to complete fiction and history projects.
Covidiocracy is thus a framework for not writing. While in Baltimore for the remainder of the season, I want to write Porch, a novel set in Baltimore, and Cox and Swain, an historical novel set in Old Baltimore Town. While in Jersey and Pennsylvania, places where I may isolate, I intend to write The Servants of Woodbridge Manor, a children’s fiction set in Jersey, and Of Ichor and War, a mythological tale of Ancient Hellas, and also a dozen Plantation America articles for In This New Israel.
Yet life intrudes; what is more the emotive strife implanted by the Media Priesthood on behalf of their Masters Invisible, blares from every screen and glares from every gaslit face over their masks. Maskland seems here to stay.
…
Dedication
For Big Head Tweet, who recognized me at a Baltimore bus stop this Tuesday past, the only soul in this terrible sinkhole that has recognized my wizened form as housing the same soul as my former form, who I simply nodded to and walked by, snubbing this sweet, kind man, who was among my only admirers in that past life I abandoned in June 2018. The only excuse I may tender is that I am now less a man than I was upon a harder time. I am convinced now, that my soul is dying, not living, that this present journey is merely a visitation of a world where I once lived, which this form now haunts.
…
“What are you doing, homework?” inquires Georgia, the Alpha Hen of this Ladybird House, where her former grocery clerk coworker types at her kitchen table.
I answer, “Yes, unfortunately, the man I work for is a complete asshole who will not give me a single day off.”
“Oh, my,” she says and goes out to sit with Megan on the porch.
…
Here goes another Journal I’d rather not write. But the habit of writing impressions of people, places and things in the broad comprehensive, that discipline that formed the writing school that enables me to take a stab at writing fiction and history with zero education in those arts, is now a portion—a symptom, if you will—of the Graphomania that owns me.
-James LaFond, Eastpoint-Colgate, Baltimore County, Maryland, Friday Morning, May 20th, 3rd Year of the Holy Race, 2nd Year of the Sacred Plague
