As I try doggedly to complete Plantation America and do justice to the hundreds of thousands of souls, mostly young, overwhelmingly unknown, interred in the mass grave of Plantation America, where we are told the white picket fences of Colonial America shone, a sadness encroaches. My family, for one, has been as doggedly resistant to the idea that America is not a Utopian meritocracy, as I am increasingly insistent that we abide atop an edifice of lies.
Over the course of the previous 21 volumes, the Planting of America has come clearly into focus:
1.) Men of means and ambition, [Rileigh, Grenville, John White, Smith, Rolph, Bradford & T. White, etc.] deprived a place at home at the crowded political table, are encouraged, at their own expense, by the established power brokers, to find, explore and PLANT new lands; to make a place for themselves at the table of power by expanding that table, adding planks cut from virgin timber.
2.) Such lands are planted with “wastemen” “white trash” “vagabonds,” orphans, half-orphans, waifs, criminals, debtors, conscripts, as well as some adventurous souls seeking a hazardous fortune. We are only permitted to recall this final, tiny category as our working class progenitors.
3.) Cited as key to plantation success by Dee, Bacon, Berkely, Smith, Standish, Mort, Calvert, Penn, etc., was that the Planter Class make and maintain military alliance with indigenous tribal folk, as a ward against competition from other Planter nations, but primarily, first and finally, as an alliance between Planters and Warriors against the Planted wastemen. This is where the real rub came, as expressed in the Declaration of Independence and the other founding documents of USG, that the Planter Tax Farming Class, that is the Colonial Managerial Class acting over the Planted Class, maintain exclusive rights to deal with Indian tribes as foreign nations of sovereign ilk. The goal was to contain the flight of forced labor to the tribes as adopted members [which the disease and war-depleted tribes, eager for adopted members, resisted] and into the “front-tier” as competing free clans, a notion the tribes took to heart, to include adopted members passionately defending their adopted homelands against incursions by their same-race, same-class analogs, who came with ready ax and gun rather than with broken shackles.
Phase 3, was not even interrupted by the Revolution 1774 thru 83. That act of separation of Colonial bodies from home governance [Colonial and Colony referred only to governing bodies, not “The People,” the people being in fact The Plantation, both residing within the geography of the Province and later State,] did not alter this dynamic at all. Nor did the American Civil War.
A close reading of American history from the journals and letters of Mort, Morely and Franklin, to all of the Indian War and front-tier accounts, reveals that the British Crown and Later USG, either allied with tribes against runaways, squatters, prospectors, settlers and frontiersmen, or allied with the recent departures from state control into the wilderness, against the tribes, with offers of legit ownership, in order to abrogate treaties and expand territory. USG thence employed legal action against the frontiersmen to take away what they had won with ax and gun. See the life of Dan Boone as case study.
As a non-political, non-voting, vagabond myself, a latter day tramp, I have noted that USG has turned, via a two-party system of sinister convenience and a sham “free” yet captive press, existing American natives [those born here] into frontiersmen and Indians. Every rural Red state is invaded via universities and government postings with urban and suburban Blue settlers. Likewise, every immigrant, legal and illegal, is aligned with Blue civics against the Reds. In both kinds of states, and I now reside in half of them, Red folk have fled along former tribal migration routes to increasingly remote locations in order to escape their ideological enemies. Others, ideologically overrun, hunker down in grim silence, arming themselves for the final battle of Blue versus Red, both sides in constant fear that USG will side with their enemies.
This binary hatred is all that is required to fuel the political feedback loop that is the power abstraction of The State, as it seeks to transmogrify into a post State organism of global expanse. The machinery of power is so enticing to the Binary Mind of the Planted Soul that it will never be dismantled when it may instead be taken up. Thus, the tool of power has become self-aware, perhaps in some distant age, and more keenly again in ours, as its enemies, the impulses of autonomy and concord, have been drowned in the feral dichotomy of discord.
I have been stricken by this, keenly of late as more and more of my loved-ones succumb to a six-year long phase of increased mortality. Every year since 2019, has featured more deaths, at an earlier age, of Americans, then demographers had calculated. All-cause death keeps going up. In the mean time this is blamed by the media and government on voluntary dietary and lifestyle choices, when this six-year trend began with a factory made plague pioneered under USG supervision in Maryland, exported via other nations back to us, and then nefariously unleashed, as treatments for it were withheld by international corporations during a media gaslight campaign.
In those dark days of 20-22, I was harangued by family for not getting USG international corporate approved treatments. I had to wave to loved ones from the street. There was a time, in my 20s, when our family suffered a great die-off; a grand parent, aunt or uncle died every year. Now, I lose a friend or family member every second month. Here is one example.
The Chief, a good government guy, twice retired from USG posts, declared his daughter to be my wife, despite the fact that I was not vaxt. [I’m still afraid to use medical terminology. Five of my Australian readers have vanished since the Plague Op.] He and all the other Honest Injuns at the weekly elders powwow got vaxt. I did not and talked my wife into not getting boosted. The other elders got all the boosters. He said to me, “To each his own—it’s your life; good luck to you!” He was convinced that his government was trying to save us while I was equally convinced that USG was culling us. Since then, he, his wife, his brother, Lakota Mike, and many elders, who normally live longer lives than they have, have passed. So many are still dying of turbo cancer, stroke and heart disease that every powwow has a moment of silence for the recently departed elders. When I went with him to oncology he said, “Look at this, who would have thought so many people would get cancer at the same time.” Since then, stroke and cancer are treated as out-patient, and bronchitis has been moved to in-patience treatment. The vaxt are constantly getting new versions of the plague they were treated against. Yesterday, the Wife and I drove by a Toys R’ Us that is now an oncology center!
Some of my readers, recalling Blue Folk declaring that they should be sent to camps for not getting vaxt, and that if they died of the Brovid they go what they deserved, will be tempted to dance upon these many graves. I recall the Chief, who was simply sad that I would die for not getting the Jab, not wishing it as a doctrinal punishment. In our medicalized, atheist world, this man-made disease/cure strife yet remains as a great divide inserted by Leviathan to keep us addled fish swimming in easily gobbled schools. Please, as the folks who were turned against us for not getting vaxt, perish in huge numbers, for doing what they were told was “the right thing,” lets not suffer The Beast to keep us divided along civic lines beyond the veil of this sorrowful life.
A clinical scientist told me in 2021, “We are looking at the fact that everyone we know now, who gets vaxt, will probably not be alive in ten years.”
With a bakers dozen of friends and family already gone according to the most common vax side-effects, and Juan’s celebration of life due this Wednesday, April 2, I feel only sadness for the Fear Departed.
Tomorrow, I begin, in earnest, writing the satire Skinnies!, which many will see as a brutal, tasteless, jest. It is, on the face, an attempt to take an absurd proposition and, by honing narrative skill, make it violently entertaining and humanely reflective. As strange as the idea will seem to many, American truths, from the Plantation America past and my own life, will appear on every page, in a fictive form that might hopefully survive the current Dark Age prohibition against truths great and small.
