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Precinct of the Queen
Musing on Anglo-Matriarchal Civilization: 10/9/2022
© 2022 James LaFond
I have often and sometimes crookedly wondered at the sissy plight of the greatest warrior race—numbered by victories won over enemy races, lands conquered and wildernesses not shunned. How come, this race, primarily in its most successful and widespread form, the Anglo has come to value all things feminine over masculine to the point of a rewriting every story to replace the Aryаn hero with a female or other type of person?
I recently saw the last two James Bond movies, okay fare, rediculous and materialistic, the assassin hero fighting for the good of a government that hates him, “Her Majesty’s Government.”
This series has always been about Modernity, about upholding it against evil, about murdering on the fringes and in the shadows so that unmarried mothers and fatherless children could be safe in their hen houses.
Of interest is that this hero turns out to have been an orphan, and is replaced by a black woman who is given his number, 007!
Last month, about this time, the Queen of the Whore of Nations, who has cast adrift more orphans on the seas of fate than any other nation, died and this nation, supposedly having escaped its clutches 250 years ago, worshipped her with lowered flag for two weeks.
Two nights ago, I was interviewed by radical cultural dissidents who, asked me for some advice on keeping “safe.” They were asking for recommendations on sheltering what remains of their once great race against the storm of hate that the Anglo master class has whipped up against their own nether classes.
It then occurred to me that this is only possible, this safety, if one acquires great currency in the current insanity. I do not value safety for men and pointed out what I did to make life safer for my woman and children, moving them out of the place being invaded by the enemies in 2000 and into the place being invaded by them now, as I went back into danger, where I wrote of it.
This, in our current sissy, white rabbit, trying to build the better hen house and occupy the safe space queerality, does, in a perverse way, echo the ancient Aryаn plight: nomadism.
It is not possible, unless one is immensely wealthy, to buy safety. The laws of the Mammy Land will soon decree that you must invite the raccoon into the hen house, that you must pretend to be the friend of the very fiends that slather in deep hate to lay hands upon our women and children’s soft throats, and our undeniably soft throats.
Modernity, as part of the War against Family—its most hated enemy, with the families of its soldiers generations ago destroyed to render them into hate soldiers hunting us—offers a unique paradox. To reside in the same home as our family, the same space, we must be separated from them by time.
The home is merely a resting place, a meeting place, with husband and wife both sent out to graze the economic pastures like rabbits stocking the hunting fields for the hounds imported to course us to oblivion. Our children are taken away and put in conditioning centers to render them into willing sacrifices.
Shadows of this even echo in these high Rocky Mountains among people who I am helping prep for bad times, foraging for medicinal plants and helping with the garden and canning. As I work in the garden and folks come to buy eggs from Bob and others walk by to the post office, I get many compliments about having the most beautiful yard in the valley. I tell them, “Oh, its not mine. I just work for Bob and Deb.”
The yard and garden is a compromise. With the world going crazy Deb has decided to ease up on the utterly worthless lawn and let Bob put in planting beds. Deb is remarkable in that she cuts her own lawn, fixes her own lawn mower, cuts older ladies’ lawns. Across the country this is done by the slave man on behalf of his queen wife, or by the Mexican for the Aryаn.
These lawns are utterly sterile and produce no food, often poisoning ground water. The noise, and time and machinery used to cut grass, a worthless stuff, surrounded by concrete and asphalt and brick is a very strange ritual and serves no purpose other than to reflect the gardens of the British Gentry of old. This state is the destination of democracy, the sham that government serves the slave rather than the slave the government, in which every person must be a king or queen.
This seems to have driven the most domestic of us—the entirety of middle class America in the twilight of their caste—to this mad pursuit of growing sterile grass so it can be cut. The legacy, in the mid term, is that the elite of an earlier agrarian age, when famine was common and most British subjects starved regularly, was beyond the normal elite rite of ostentatious consumption. The garden and lawn of Anglo Elysium is best represented in Barry Lyndon, a movie starring Paul Newman, and in other early modern costume epics. The mansion and garden and maze and hedges and lawns of the Anglo elite take an area that could feed and house a small community and take it out of production for the leisure class.
Every American suburban household aspires or rejects this, most aspring, none denying that it is the standard. Neighborhood associations demand lawn care, colors of a certain hue. Municipal laws in almost all human habitation zones bar the keeping of sheep, goats, cattle or horses that could trim that grass and convert it to meat, wool, milk or energy. Rather we dump gasoline, our rarely shed sweat, and make a great racket on Saturday morning to maintain a postage stamp version of the Precinct of the British Queen.
Deb has come to her senses. Once, she diligently slaved away maintaining a lawn that was admired by all and shopped three days a week buying groceries to put up for her extended family in case “The world went to hell.”
“Now, since the world is going to hell, and they raised the water prices because the rich folks need to fill their swimming pools,” Bob and Deb and I have constructed and maintain 16 planting beds, a chicken coup, a burn pile, a compost pile, wood-chipped squash growing expanses, egg growing and natural wild food processing [like elderberry syrup and wine, rose hip tea], that precious water used to offset the rising cost of...everything.
We are being placed in an elite generated plague and famine matrix, designed, just like the Anglo eradication of the Irish through the phony potato famine, still taught by every conditioning center and media outlet. In the meantime, as farm land is reduced for elite housing and sterile lawns in this valley every year, even the conditioned human mind senses it. Now, when the ladies come buy and admire Deb’s yard, it is not the lawn or the fountain, but the actual edible garden they go on about. In our inner subtext, we know we are being slated for extinction and sent up the meat chute of collective soul.
But something tugs.
Might it be, that as our sterile suburban lawn is an echo of the Queen’s Lawn, that her ill gotten green stain is an echo of an earlier plain?
When nomad Aryаns went to war with the horses and hounds, it was not as supposed by modern movies, with a man and a woman shooting it out with the bad guys back to back. No, like the Huns, tartars, Turks, Mongols, Comanche and Crow that later followed in their footsteps, the women and children and herds were kept out in the sea of grass or in a sheltered valley, while the men went forth.
There is nothing wrong with a woman wanting to be surrounded by the green that once marked her safety and her plenty. It is clear that the Anglo Queen is the Aryаn imitator of a once real time and space. The problem is, that modern civics, the cult of money currency, it demands of us all, that we be the toy queen in our decorative pen.
So have the greatest conquerors the world has ever known taken to their knees.
Harvest and Rain
The Professor and The Madman
the fighting edge
crag mouth
thriving in bad places
songs of aryаs
sons of aryаs
the first boxers
Ruben     Feb 21, 2023

Kick ass James

A stunner.
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