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Nightcall
In Search of Steerage #3: Portland, Oregon, 1/4/25
Default fear settings have been achieved by creating internal hysteria, in the form of fetish fear cults.
-5. Serial Killers
There have always been prolific killers, firstly of animals for the group, then of humans, inflicted against members of an enemy group. These were heroes. Once a wide variety of mutually antagonistic races, religions and ideologies were forced to live together through necessity of competitive scale or via conquest, the core promise of civilization, of disarmament of the MAN [1] in exchange for a promise of state protection or at least punishment, came under threat. Some mass killers would naturally arise within civilization. Ironically, women predominantly, have come to fetishize these killers in the ancient way of heroes.
This has been cultivated by all law enforcement agencies as a form of scapegoating, with killers often willingly admitting to slayings they could not and did not commit, in return for increased infamy. This feeds the need for false murder clearance rates by the law, the need to feel intimately endangered of the denatured and remotely confined woman, and the need for fame of the terminally alienated killer. For 30 years movie and TV have literally worshiped the lone mastermind killer, almost always a Caucasian man.
The need for worship in a post-traditional society is easily harnessed, such as the recent Cult of Dead Politicians, with the current, two-week-long ascension of Jimmy Carter into the heavenly pantheon of USG Imperial gods under progress as I write. The old peanut farmer and failed president’s body is being carted around like Ptolemy once did with the body of Alexander the Great.
Cater gets two weeks of worship. But the serial killer cults do not expire with the re raising of the post office flag. We worship that which strikes fear in our hearts. God-fearing folk shorn of God by the cult of Science yearn to fear, and fear deeply, in their homes. The Serial Killer, largely a fabrication, with mass deaths of prostitutes and abducted teens committed on behalf of political cabals who induct one another through shared sex crimes, assigned to one or another of the undertakers serving the sex fiends that inhabit USG. [2]
-6. Lone Wolf Celibates
Cultivation of fatherless mental patients and their use to commit mass killing in single events with cars, bombs and guns, much of which had to be supplied and coordinated by military operatives, and in many cases where multiple shooters were seen, is a sophisticated branching of the serial killer complex, which was developed at the same time along two converging tracks, by two different federal agencies.
-7. War on Drugs
The infusion of massive amounts of opiates, cocaine and weed by USG agents, to include two presidents, multiple governors and the Central Mind, constituted an opium war launched by USG against America just as Britain did so against China in the 1840s. Creating a specific army, the DEA, and transforming police forces into Isrаeli style armies of occupation, put a counterpart of the internal Soviet Army of political control in the US. The lifting of the Drug War at the very time that the War on Terror looked inward away from Islamic enemies to internal white enemies, freed an army to put boot to American necks.
-8. War on Terror
Every single terrorist organization, internal and external to USG will be found to have been trained, equipped, supplied and positioned by deep agents of USGs central brain. The only “evidence” against this fact is that USG would not act against its own people’s interest, when in fact the people of USG, are, by nature, the ultimate enemy of USG. For 5 million agents to keep 350 million in fear and self hatred and bipolar feud, an external enemy must be cultivated and propped up. The War On Terror, ignited by agents of USG attacking NYC and blaming it on a band of sissy playboys who were not only captured but released just prior to their supposed crime, was ultimately aimed at Americans. It began with the killing of Americans, and will end so.
-9. Semantic Terror
The distortion of language, the transmogrification of words, the misapplied use of terms for mas peril, like “Pandemic” which continued to be used in 2021 after the disease in question was downgraded to an epidemic, is an evolution of internal terror policy. Use of the terms fact checking, misinformation, disinformation, malinformation, and as yet unseen attacks on the rational mind and irrational emotions of the modern mind [for which America is the clinical study] through the corruption and weaponization of English, has reached mid stride.
-10. Internal Enemies
I have observed that most “internal enemies” caught making plots against civil rights and the power structure, turn out to be made of of 20% dupes and 80% USG agents. Virtually the entire and now utterly defunct “white nationalist” movement was inhabited by federal informants and agents.
New internal enemies, usually “white” men will be generated at a steady rate. Speaking with white criminals who have done prison time, I have been informed that obvious undercover cops, posing as racial militants are forever recruiting and only catching the most stupid, naive and drug addicted in their weird plots.
-11. Political Terror
Generating fear and unease in every individual about things happening hundreds and thousands of miles away to other individuals and selling this as collective peril, is a means of maintaining constant baseline fear and anger. For instant, most women I know are afraid and angry about a woman in Texas not being able to abort her baby.
-12. Medical Terror
News continues with a constant litany of new medical perils, most of which fail to ignite to “pandemic” status. This is a way of keeping us in constant subfear and alert for the next big scare. The greatest and most successful American general had two axioms: “Be the first with the most,” and “keep up the scare.”
-13. The Next Big Scare
News terror and USG attacks on Americans have long been predicted via revelation of the method on movies and TV. Most law enforcement TV is written by FBI screen writers. Most action movies are written by CIA screen writers. The FBI has long floated the peril of serial killers and sex offenders. That is their constant wheel house of peril. Movies, though, tend to focus on god like killers, lone wolf masterminds of nearly superhuman powers: Jason Bourne, The Bee Keeper, The Sniper, The Gunman, The Gray Man, John Wick, who have fallen from system grace and are now killing on their own. Expect to see continued activation or scapegoating of veterans of USG military service as Lone Wolf mass killers. The importance of this, long term, to system stability, is to inoculate Americans from sympathizing with military veterans who might turn on their diabolical, blood drinking, soul eating arm chair handlers.
The final installment will be written as the afterword to this book in:
Afterdark
On Terminal Steerage
Notes
-1. This necessitated a change in the definition of manhood, as a man, from the earliest times, was only such if he were a warrior, otherwise he was merely a slave or a man/woman.
-2. The book Eye of the Chickenhawk proves this clearly, even pedantically, and is reviewed in the appendices of this book.
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posted: May 7, 2025   reads: 71   © 2025 James LaFond
Mind Affright
In Search of Steerage #2: Portland, Oregon, 1/3/25
The American Fear Trajectory
How does Evil work in the world.
It works most powerfully when it is conducted:
-1. under false pretenses
-2. while directing the subjects of the evil intent
-3. supposedly for the benefit of the actual subjects
-4. by members of the same race,
-5. same nation,
-6. same faith,
-7. while pitting those subjects of evil against the supposed enemy of both the Evil worker and its subjects, completing the fiction of the false pretense and igniting a conflict that will feed upon itself so that the evil worker may step back and glean the results. I shall return to this at the end of this book with an ancient example.
The promise of security of civilization over the liberty of rural life must be undermined in order to harness the resulting fear to the passive impulse of the hopefully “secure” in order to work evil internally upon the very society also used to work evil externally. People who prefer liberty over security are not desirable mind slaves but are best used as mercenary actors to be turned upon later. [1]
An example that illustrates this completely and is #1 below “Making Enemies,” comes from the dawn of the nation’s history, in 1791. Two means of using the hated western front-tier folk to pay for the war debt incurred by the eastern planters against Great Britain were both implemented in the Northwest Territory:
-Taxing whiskey, which caused the Whiskey Rebellion
-Selling lands belonging to Indian allies, belonging to tribal nations which, in the Declaration of Independence, Articles of Confederation and Constitution, were recognized as sovereign nations which USG wished to be allied with. This latter scheme was well known and opposed by many Americans who pointed out that vast tracts of virgin land unoccupied by tribes were already at hand for development.
Washington denied diplomatic overtures from Turtle, the Miami leader, and picked a fight, sending an army of 800 hastily assembled men to fight 900 warriors. This army was abandoned by its officers, who returned mostly safe, their men mostly dead. The entire standing army of 96 artillery men was wiped out. The disaster was used to convince a half million armed and able American men that 900 savages would sweep them and theirs into the sea. This gave Washington the clout to form a temporary American Legion under Anthony Wayne, who forced men to serve. When victory was his, Wayne declared that it was won only by the officers, and that it was won for “The United States Government!”
The Whiskey Rebellion, started for the same debt payment to foreign nations and banks of no nation, was put down with the aid of this Legion, which then became a permanent army, against the promise that it would not. Men forced to serve in this army died in large numbers from illness and exposure. When these men deserted, they were hunted down and scalped by Shawnee warriors, now in the pay of USG, the same warriors who had wiped out Sinclair’s men and had later been chastised by Wayne at Fallen Timbers. Ironically, Turtle, the man whose genius and character led 900 men who could agree on little other than they wanted to defend their ancestors’ graves, was honored by Washington with a sword for his service in killing 800 Americans and terrorizing millions, would retire to a white picket fence house and marry his daughter to an American.
USG would continue to break treaties over the next 100 years in large part to generate a public need for an army, when, at any time, non-military frontiersmen were more than capable of taking down the tribes. Indeed, Tecumseh and the Shawnee would be wiped out by Kentucky Militia. In many cases USG forces protected tribes from armed Americans. This is the primary American means of exterior fear mongering.
Methods of Fear Cultivation
-0. Population Replacement began with bringing in Africans to replace European slaves and freedmen between 1678 and 85. Forcing people who are born in a place to accept neighbors with different customs and allegiances has been the primary means of building internal social fear, upon which other fears are built on.
-1. Making Enemies
This is the means by which USG became Leviathan, the most successful system of rule yet devised, by supplying, even training, then estranging and attacking weaker nations and sub-state peoples such as tribes and religious militants. From yellow journalism starting the Spanish American War in 1898, to American banks funding the Third Reich in the 1930s as USG bullied Japan into war, then the American manufacture of the Vietnam War by shipping in French troops to retake a colony which had been sponsored against the Japanese by USG, the development of various regional attack dogs to include the financing and training of their armies by USG in Panama, Iraq, Afghanistan and Libya, then declaring war on those client states, to the intentional training and arming of three terrorist organizations by USG, and most egregiously USG feeding the Soviet Union, its supposed enemy, so that nation could afford to wage The Cold War which terrorized billions with the prospect of Nuclear War. USG has never abandoned Washington’s grift of making an exterior enemy into a viable threat so that the subject population could be driven to support war and the increase of state tyranny.
-2. Women’s Suffrage placed the most fearful, security prone, safety seeking portion of humanity in the democratic driver’s seat. Women have consistently voted for war more often then men, across all cultures and time frames, to include the disastrous Sioux war against the Crow. Likewise women vote for internal armies of social control, being police, consistently, in order to insure that they, rather than their husband, father or son, are true masters of the household.
-3. Denying Freedom of Association began with elevating women artificially to masculine status via the thews of the State. This has spread to the point that masculine and ethnic fraternities, traditionally over the ages the bulwark against tyranny, may not be formed except against explicit state laws, effectively necessitating a declaration of war against the host nation in the womb.
-4. Predatory Psychiatry or mind control was implemented initially based on consumption and the selling of extraneous goods to people, primarily women, propelling men, under the thumb of the police state to scramble for money like never before in order to maintain their servile security under the consumer matriarchy, which, was always managed by manipulative men. See Bernays, Propaganda, 1928. By transferring the power of the ancient oracle, which were devices of national and international manipulation, pretending to serve “the Gods” but in actual fact serving the bankers who embezzled the precious metals from these temples, to electronic media, the individual human of every modern society may be gaslit, incited, terrified, angered and even driven into quiet lonely insanity, by constant exposure to the manipulative overmind that was once only sought in season and ceremony.
In Nightfall, Steerage #3, fear inculcation methods 5 thru 13 will by discussed briefly. These are based on the precepts of USG, being false hyperbole that threaten the debt slave’s bargain with his evil master, that his ultimate lack of liberty is rewarded with security. These rest on such false testimonials as are common in news reporting and were present in most counts of the Declaration of Independence. See my book The Greatest Lie Ever Sold for a breakdown of the falsehoods embedded in the foundational documents of USG, mankind’s mightiest golem, yet still, just a tool, if inhabited by millions of agents and overseers and hundreds of millions of gaslit subjects, who, according to the most brilliant conspiracy in modern times, fancy themselves not only free, but the masters of mankind’s most ravenous collectivity.
Notes
-1. Roman generals were the prime examples of this. I usually cringe at citing movies. But the movie Gladiator gave an accurate picture of the hatred of the system manager for the system actor. See Victor Davis Hansen’s Savior Generals for an intentionally naive examination of this hatred of the system for its apex actors.
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posted: May 5, 2025   reads: 151   © 2025 James LaFond
Humanitarian Daily Ration
Or Haunted Pyreon, A Novel
Author’s Proof
Copyright 2025 James LaFond
A Crackpot Book
Lynn Lockhart Publisher
Dust Cover
With 39 years of faithful service to UPLINK, Auditor Matt is less than a year from retirement. The catch was, so was EARTH… the Mother of humanity was about to be retired as a technological human habitat. As the Colorado Regional Auditor tasked with decommissioning the last and final humanitarian mission on Earth, Matt, seated at his red oak coffee table before the picture window of Earth’s very last house, is assailed with guilt, haunted by doubt and faced with a crisis of faith. Matt’s spirit fell even further, as over the threshold of Wonderview Cabin, framed in the ancient stained beams, limped his new Conductor, the last of that busy kind, rendered as haggard as any of those poor earthbound souls to be fed by that wind-bitten hand one last time.
Extended Dust Cover
Conductor Ted did not remember the cities. He had seen their rubble expanses in his childhood, while they yet smoked, soon after the military had done their work. Other than that and the tormented nightmares of his orphaned youth, all Ted had known since age 15, was work, the long, hard, lonely work of a Conductor. He had been trained by Dave Billy, best of their kind, forty years ago up Wyoming way. Now he was the last of that transitory breed, transferred to Golden Colorado to feed some and Uplift others. He did not know his new Auditor, the last of so many—but he did smile when he saw for certain that Auditor Matt was human, and that he was younger than he, perhaps with still a smile left to go with that steaming cup of coffee.
Inspiration
A conversation had with my Colorado host by phone while I waited for a broken train in Albuquerque, New Mexico. A notion of a world purposefully left fallow by the Newly Anointed Tech Oligarchs with their hearts set on the stars, was breathed gray life from the 18th floor of a Chicago hotel as the snow scoured deserted streets far below, and confirmed, two days later, when I was welcomed to Wonderview Cabin, above Coal Canyon, overlooking a wilderness designated so, and being invited to enjoy a:
HUMANITARIAN DAILY RATION
Food Gift From The People Of The UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
Dedicated to Matt, who provided me the writing space of Wonderview Cabin for this project, as well as the nutriment mentioned above.
Inspirational Quote
“I have more than I need to survive, too much stuff, really. But in a potential time of need, I would like to be able to feed and arm my neighbors.”
-Matt, 2/14/25
Time Line
2041: Ted, who never recalled having a last name, was born in Portland, Oregon.
2045: Matt Styer, was born in Decatur, Illinois.
2050: UPLINK, SOULINK, ILION DAWN and Pyreon were instituted as part of the ARK Project, intended to return earth to its natural state while humanity colonized the Solar System.
2051: Human birth was strictly regulated and limited to nuclear families of three committed [1] to UPLINK.
2052: UPLINK to the solar colonies initiated.
2053: Reduction of cities by the military initiated the Fallow Earth process.
2056: Ted, at age 15, was apprenticed as a Conductor to David Billy.
2057: Matt, at age 12, was hired by UPLINK to interface with Automated Population Management or APM.
2058: Ilion Meek, CEO of UPLINK, initiated Humanitarian Daily Ration
2059: AI Gun Ban enforced by drone.
2060: APM followed the reduction of population centers with the reduction of all housing, production, resource extraction, fencing, and any building not strictly monumental in nature and symbolic in function, to include the decommissioning of all none APM equipment. All agriculture, including stock breeding, eliminated. [2,3]
2081: All dams broken as the final military task before Armed Uplift.
2096: Matt is tasked with Final UPLINK and assigned Ted, the last active Conductor, to assist in the mission.
Timeline Notes
-1. Contracts were replaced by commitments once astrophysicists had determined for certain that a comet was going to pass close enough to earth in 2097 to cause world catastrophe. This fact was not disclosed to the public, ever, was kept as a humanitarian secret, and was not disclosed to to the auditor class until 2086.
-2. AI facility management of nuclear reactors, tasked with precontamiation has preserved the physical structures of these power sources. These have been forbidden zones since the damns were broken.
-3. Bridges were deemed to be short term structures with an obvious symbolic value, as well as a short term humanitarian purpose, as well as rode ways and rail ways. All vehicles, however, that were practicable to be gathered at urban centers for demolition, were wrecked and burned. Rural vehicles were impracticable to gather, with their purpose reimagined to be analogous to that of ships scuttled in mass to form the substructure for new barrier reefs.
Pyreon the Story
Each Scene is Preceded by a Briefing and Exceeded by a Debriefing
Scenes
#1: Humanitarian Daily Ration
#2: The Fence Line
#3: The Overhang
#4: Brie
#5: The Well
#6: The Kin
#7: The Roughneck
#8: The Cave
#9: Sally
#10: Better Fed Than Dead
#11: Ilion Dawn
#12: Mountains My Witness
Pyreon Benedictions
-Elysium
-Nirvana
-Oblivion
-Heaven
-Paradise
-Valhalla
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posted: May 4, 2025   reads: 96   © 2025 James LaFond
Grace
The Areid: Book 1
Author’s Proof
Copyright 2025 James LaFond
A Crackpot Book
Lynn Lockhart Publisher
Dust Cover
From the ascension of Alexander the Great in 336 B.C., throughout his unmatched series of victories, down to his death in 323 B.C., one unit of his expedition was cited, and saw more action, than any other. These men were semi-barbarian allies of the young king from the highlands of what is now Bulgaria. These unmatched fighters who began their conquest of the known world in animal hides, were more loyal than Alexander’s own guards, of his own race. Seeing more action than any other unit of the Macedonian army, the Agrianes, whose primary town had been occupied continuously for some 7,000 years before their bloody 13 year expedition, offer a view to the greatest adventure of antiquity.
Extended Dust Cover
Ode was bundled off from Temesa, in Hellenic Italy, across the Adriatic Sea to a town he had never known existed, and there sold, along with six other youths of about 12 years. On the very advent of manhood, when boys of free men and citizens were admitted into the town guard to patrol the countryside for the community, Ode, bastard to a lame goatherd and a shamed cook, found himself on a strange pier, in an uncaring land, alongside six strange boys of far off lands, gathered for sale before a hard man.
Grace is the story of Alexander’s rise to Kingship and his invasion of Greek Persia, related from the perspective of some of the nameless youths who became men in his wake, men hardened at the keen edge of his pathological will. This account is based directly on that of Arrian’s Alexander Expedition, and is intended as a seven-volume companion to The Son of God, a history by the same author, based directly on Arrian’s seven books.
Historical Sources
Of the three extant, comprehensive accounts of Alexander, those of Arrian, Plutarch and Quintus Curtius Rufus, all are from late Antiquity as far removed from Alexander and his time as we are from Columbus and his. There are fragmentary sources on Alexander, such as Didorus and Polybius, and a few curated fragments from closer to Alexander’s time. Arrian states that he followed Aristobulus and Ptolemy, who were generals to Alexander, as primary sources, and used others, most likely of Nearchus, another officer of Alexander and of Callisthenes, the official expedition recorder, and that of his successor. Such accounts, if differing from recollections that might affront the academic class, need not be destroyed. For a book to be omitted from the historical record, a simple decision not to copy it is enough to consign it to the dustbin of ages.
Additional to these now lost primary sources, Arrian mentions a great mass of “popular tradition,” which he did not discount, and assured the reader that the nature of Alexander the person, might be clearly reflected there. This ever growing popular tradition included a mass of romances, much of which Arrian sneered at, that would have been inflations and distortions of the popular tradition. What is utterly absent is an account from a soldier. Thousands of Alexanders soldiers were literate, and hundreds of them poets, in the oral campfire sense. It was a habit, a dedicated practice of Alexander to visit every wounded soldier and listen to his story. That practice was, in the view of this novelist, the root of the “popular tradition” of the Alexander Romances.
In many ways, Arrian is a cipher. Yet, as a writer, I see his reluctant hand clearly. I my self have labored as a writer against the system we live under and have omitted and edited out more statements that I suspect are facts than most popular writers publish. I see in Arrian a writer who withheld much of what he suspected was truth from his narrative so that his work would survive the ages. Each work, to survive, had to be copied under state sanction, which meant under the approving eye of the financiers who controlled both the politicians and the priesthoods, the ranks from which Arrian and Plutarch were drawn. Ovid and Virgil were punished as exiles for their writings, Paul executed within the memory of elders that would have been known to Flacus, Plutarch and Arrian. It is my intention to faithfully exemplify Arrian’s portrait of Alexander, from the perspective of his most dependable men as they come of age. The narrative idea is not to add a single action, not to expand on any aspect of the expedition, but to flesh out the experience within the framework passed down to us.
Narrative Premise
The Agrianes were never resupplied with fresh recruits from home as were other units. Yet, seeing more action than any, their strength never reduces. I suppose, based on the after action reports of women and children being disposed of, that replacements may have been drawn from the unseen army of slaves who carried the gear and food of the soldiers. Greek armies of the period had twice as many men as listed, with a groom for each horseman and a porter for each footman. The 300 Spartans had each of them, a helot slave, who was also a soldier. Furthermore, it is well known among military historians that the highly valuable Peltast class of light infantry, were drawn from youths [Roman Republican Velites], barbarians [Agrianes] and from slaves and freedmen [manumitted slaves] throughout the Greek world. During one engagement, Alexander’s scouts found “three girls, three boys and three black rams” lying dead as sacrifices to draw a curse upon Alexander. The expenditure of youthful life that we see as innocent to sacred under modern ethics, in Antiquity typed closer to spending money or using oil to light a fire, rather than any dedication to youthful humanity.
By all accounts, Alexander was the most humanitarian, and most kind conqueror of his age. He also became a man well before age 16 when he first led an army. A problem with his loyalty among men of his race was that they were as likely or not men of his father’s age. He would later face mutiny for wanting to induct boys from conquered races into his army. Based on his extreme close moral relationship with Longarus, King of the Agrianes, and the very similar shepherd/hunter camp culture of the Agrianes and the most hardy mountaineer folk that Alexander dealt with from Albania to Afghanistan, it is the “popular tradition” premise of this novel, that such accounts that abounded in Eurasia, to number over 180 romances, were originally composed about the camp fires of the undefeated Agrianes, about their undefeated King, forever a young man who was greeted as a Savior from ethnic slavery, monetary slavery, political slavery and above all from War, which he at once embodied and affronted, never sacrificing to War, but always to the Almighty, who so detested his angel of slaughter, son of heaven though he was.
-Portland, Oregon, Saturn’s Day, War Month, Day 1
Narrative Notes
In The Son of God, a history, my guide is Arrian, together with his own guide, Xenophon, as befits an Athenian author, [1] and Alexander’s personal guide Homer, as befits a heroic royal.
For Ode and his fellows, I have chosen as guides: Pausanius in his story of Euthymus and the demon who was a ghost of Odysseus’ marooned sailor, of Hesiod [Ode-singer] who was a shepherd and camp poet, and, like Alexander and Arrian, Xenophon, who described in finer detail much of the same sort of action over the same ground by the same means, that Arrian summarizes. Arrian wrote of battle in shorthand, one suspects, because of the vast scale of Alexander’s expedition compared to that of Xenophon.
I shall also lean on minor Greek Lyrics translated by Richmond Lattimore and of Italian Faerie Tales listened to on audio book between chapters.
I have chosen youthful characters as a means of overcoming a great short coming. I do not wish to write a novel set in a place I have not walked. I was denying Alexander’s relentless ghost knocking on the door to my muse cave when Major Wolf told me, at 7500 feet in the Laguna High Desert, that he was taking me up a box canyon and that I was following him on the spare ATV. He returned as I tried to figure out how the thing started, gave me a brief demonstration on starting and shifting, and tore off. An hour later I rolled the ATV, landed on my feet in the sage brush, and walked behind him up into the box canyon.
He stopped and peered down at me with his narrow military eyes, as we looked up at the boulder cliffs. He said, “There is a Tom Cougar up there! So, how did you like the scenery?”
“Haven’t seen a thing other than the ruts in the trail and your dust. Could have been surrounded by a herd of bison and I wouldn’t know.”
He laughed and left me in his dust again as I jogged down the trail to restart the ATV ahead of the 200 pound cat I had been assured was thirsting for my flatland blood…
This convinced me, that if I put my mind in the place of high stress, that is youth trying to keep up with men in combat, together with the adolescent male obsession with action and unconcern with the pedigree of vegetation and the color of rocks and such, that I could write an operational novel from the perspective of the slave boys hauling the blankets and barley meal and spare javelins and darts of veteran warriors. For, by the time those that survive would come of age, they would be in an alien land were many men I know have fought, the high deserts of Central Asia.
I pledge to keep the action as Arrian described, merely amplifying interior physical activity to do with combat. It is a happy fact that I have spent much time dueling with dull steel machetes of the very type the Agrianies would have used, a macheara, in fact, or cleaver, the very origin for our word machete. It is my intent to post the Areid, or war-ode or war-song or war-story [Acilleas, please rule on this linguistic subtitle] one chapter at a time on jameslafond.com and then put the book in print ASAP, just to get Alexander’s ghost out of my wan beard.
-JL, 3/2/25
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posted: May 3, 2025   reads: 106   © 2025 James LaFond
Evil: A Working Definition
In Search of Steerage #1: Portland, Oregon, 1/5/25
Having deep Arуan roots and meaning bad, harmful, and related to ill and vile rather than devil and villain, evil is a word I try not to use lightly. The Christian use of the term as a form of bad thought, of bad beliefs, has stayed with us in forms of secular ideology. This has further attached itself to race, with some people regarded as in capable of large scale evil and other peoples regarded as in capable of not doing evil, even unconsciously. This ironically brings us full circle to the fact that evil is subjective, that the harm a lion does to a hyena is good for lions and bad for hyenas, and what a hyena might do to a lion is likewise a matter of perspective. Any attempt to establish a doctrine of what is evil, that applies to all people or all beings, will naturally result in creating artificial categories of evil, with all omnivores who elect to be meat eaters perhaps evil.
I attempt only to establish the parameters for my use of the term evil below and choose harm as the base criteria. In considering acts of nature, I am reminded of God speaking to Moses about doing evil to God’s people. This was categorized as punishment, moving me to consider punishment as evil visited upon a doer of evil.
In considering harm, let’s consider breadth and depth. For instance the emotional trauma of being injured is a factor in addition to, and sometimes exceeding, the mechanical injury. Likewise an ambush by a friend, a traitor is more upsetting than at the hands of a dedicated foe. This brings me to an example from my life, expressed in my rare feelings of anger towards aggressors.
I faced three types of aggressors, from most to least common:
-1. Violent criminals of enemy races, whose forefathers had been brought to the land of my birth long after my ancestors settled there, many in my life time, who hunted me like an animal on the streets of my home town. Hundreds of attacks by my hereditary enemies never triggered anger on my part. These yo’s and spics were doing their job, honestly, openly.
Never once did I show anger at these Negroes or sandlings.
-2. Police, whose activity angered me, an anger that burned with an especially hot brand as it was bracketed by the lies that they only attacked my enemies, whose allies they actually were, and by the HOLY LIE that they protected and served me, their prey?
My simmering anger was well hidden under a mask of badge-kissing terror.
-3. Other white trash, who were like me hunted by blacks and cops, chose violence against me was a means of soothing the hurt of domination and displacement.
I had a very hard time swallowing this anger, because it was amplified in depth by the cowardice and betrayal of men like me in class, race and predicament choosing me as prey, some even sniffing me out as human blood hounds for their black masters.
I will use this as my guide: how broad is the harm, and how much deeper is it driven into the human soul by aggravating factors?
Little Evil
Donnie went to the bar yesterday and intentionally coughed in the barmaid’s face to spread his cold. He did so either for joy or company in suffering. That is evil, and in a world without laws, I might have slain him with good cause. But laws protect evil doers far more than they protect the innocent.
Great Evil
A company develops a virus to infect people so it can sell a bogus cure.
Greater Evil
The people charged with protecting our health are in on the grift and pass laws, mandates and such and make management decisions that increase the illness and cause economic and social distress.
Greatest Evil
Media, medicine and government conspire to lie about all of the above, driving millions of people insane, into drug addiction, booze, violence and depression, all of these needs profiting the corporations and governing bodies that deal in these issues, from liquor and weed taxes, to homeless incarceration and removal and ultimately medical treatment.
These two higher levels of evil multiply sorrow, reducing the subject population’s resistance to its farming.
I wonder, aside from betrayal and alienation, is their a higher form of evil?
Killing is terminal harm.
Killers though, do not regard it as the worst form. To killers, torture, to include needless suffering inflicted through lack of skill, is worse than the act of killing.
Worse yet is the sadist, the person who inflicts suffering for pleasure.
Worse still is defamation of the dead, the reduction of the action of killing to something as base as cutting grass or spraying weed killer, divesting the terminal actor of any honor, at once debasing the killed and the killer, as in postmodern remote warfare.
There is also this question of the remote. Among the few shreds of human culture which still value Honor, there is a sense that remote action, of pure management, of the “shot caller’ having no “skin in the game,” must cultivate an increasingly evil setting, a worse world.
So, the ultimate actor would naturally be a being with no skin in the game, a supra-natural entity who may only profit by suffering through the sadistic pleasures of devouring innocence, of crushing hope, of drinking tears, of swallowing the sorrows of the departing and the deserted and farming that suffering as a sustainable well of harm.
I believe that such supra-natural beings exist.
I also believe that among their more capable earthly servants are those who mimic them, by farming suffering, not just for gain, but for the pleasure of imbibing sorrow.
Debt creation and management has long been believed by various moral authorities as evil, as this process creates vast fields of want and suffering where there was none, in order to benefit the few, under the pretext of benefiting the many. Therefore, THE LIE, deceit, particularly in the guise of aid, as put forth by Satan in Job, Luke and Mathew fits the infliction of the broadest and deepest hurts.
Doing harm increases when done:
needlessly
broadly
cruelly
deceitfully
in betrayal
remotely
for pleasure
These are my guide for the inquiry into the Enemy of All Mankind.
Who are the fiends that, as on Hesiod’s Shield of Herakles, drink not only men’s blood but dine upon our earthly torments and eternal hopes?
If we cannot identify them, who are their earthly servants?
05.07.25   Joe — The man who has the answers to your question is Miles Mathis. He is an artist, scientist, and history commentator who is actively being surpressed by the intel agencies that police the internet. At the risk of doing his research a grave injustice, the short version is that millennia ago the Phoenicians, or the people that we would now loosely term as such, gained fantastic wealth from trade and banking. They realized that if they remained visible targets to the human cattle that they exploited they could not remain in power for long. They hit upon a strategy of ruling from the shadows, infiltrating royal bloodlines and camoflaging themselves amongst the peoples that they invaded. They have kept track of their bloodlines and Mathis has exposed their geneolgy through his research. They are jеwish in the sense that the Phonecians shared a common language with the Jеws, but they remain distinct and are not at all observant. They frequently make references to Canaanite gods, but I've already digressed to far. Go to this page, which leads to many more, to get started: mileswmathis.com/phoenper.pdf< /a>

A word of warning; I said he is being slandered and surrounded by noise, so don't expect honest appraisals from rigged internet searches on Google.
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posted: May 2, 2025   reads: 182   © 2025 Joe
‘Wicked Liberty’
The Dawn of Everything #1, by David Graeber and David Wengrow, pages 1-58
A New History of Humanity, 592 pages, Farrar, Straus and Giroux
Thanks to Beast O’Neal for the gift of this book, who said, “I noted many similarities in Native American sources to your work, and, since its such a big book, I thought perhaps you could read it instead of my finishing it!”
Thanks, bro, and thanks.
These two learned and prolific authors, both academics, step into the perpetual debate between the disciples of Hobbes and Rousseau, all of who miss the point, as do these two authors. The subject is the fantasy of rights and of social equality, both notions that are entirely Utopian and modern. They do find the first use of the term “equality” in a debate between the French soldier, and a Huron diplomat, penned by the former when he was on the run from the service he had deserted. It seems that the idea of equality as a social good is born of an Indian trying to explain to a European why he is a slave. This creeps into the discourse just about 1700 in Canada, at the Governor’s dinner table, at about the same time the term white, denoting a human economic unit with no racial distinction other than light skin, creeps into European language. The authors fail to investigate the French soldier’s slavery.
The inquiry into the all important question of equality of social outcome, a most stupid idea that no human with real life experience could possibly buy into, is abandoned as infantile by the authors who switch to a discovery of when the odd notion came into European thought. They focus on later French, German and English thought and seem ignorant that the idea of the pre-Christian human being intruding on European Christian thought was hundreds of years older than North America, and began with the invasion of the Canary Islands, in which a fully heathen, fully European race of people were discovered and dealt with. [1]
I suspect this book to be a deeply honest attempt at the truth, and shall use it to explain how a specific American Amnesia is perpetuated which bars occupants of this continent from understanding anything about its past.
The authors employ the Jesuit Relations which I have skimmed. I shall use my gradual examination of this book in the Plantation America Project.
Omission #1
They do not mention that one of the Jesuits, Lajeun, described the Indians as naturally “white” and appearing like French peasants, although they read him more completely than I did.
Corruption #1
They disagree with Jesuit descriptions of Indians holding slaves. Whenever a scholar tosses primary sources out on post conceived notions the reader is being subjected to the Holy American Gaslight, the burning bush of Modernity, of the worship of THE LIE.
Omission #2
Use of Indians as galley slaves is noted, without context that the vast majority of such slaves were, and logically had to be, European. Combined with Omission #1 above, reinforcing the notion that only Europeans could hold slaves, and that only non Europeans could be slaves, despite the origin of the term slave having the greatest internal European antiquity.
Corruption #2
Warriors are describes as being primarily recreational hunters only dabbling on occasion in war, contrary to all period evidence, reflecting the feminine takeover of Native American identity politics over the past 50 years. This is a bald faced lie. A man had to KILL, or capture a man, to be a man!
Omission #3
The universal high regard that European multilingual debators who learned Indian languages to conduct religious debates with them, that tribal orators were better than Europeans and that tribesmen were generally smarter than Europeans, is presented as being based on daily leisure discussion. This omits the fact that such daily discussion was often concerned with how to kill and/or not be killed by enemy tribes, and that the counsel of war, as demonstrated by the autobiographies and biographies of Pontiac, Turtle, Blue Jacket, Tecumseh, Black Hawk and Geronimo, was the real genesis of tribal eloquence, as opposed to the bickering of civilized folk.
Corruption #3
Chiefs are described as being followed by warriors only as they fancied, omitting the fact that chiefs only gained power through results, by winning in battle, or making a beneficial logistical decision.
Omission #4
The French who were in contact with the tribes were described as consisting only of Priests, Trappers, Merchants and Soldiers. Omitted are the slaves that kept the priests alive, the slaves used by trappers as lackeys, the numerous slaves owned by each merchant, and the fact that nearly all soldiers were enslaved, rounded up at the point of a bayonet and forced into service.
Corruption #4
The omission of the majority unfree French, generally a 3 to 1 majority in woodland frontier settings, causes the corrupting idea that when Indians called Europeans slaves that they referred to self slavery, of money hunting and voluntary toil to keep from poverty in a world where the poor were allowed to freeze and starve, when in fact most Europeans were driven to work by the lash and the rod, not be greed. [2]
Omission #5
When the Indian diplomat Kandiaronk, debated with the French soldier Lahontan, an officer and volunteer, who had to flee service over jealousy and died in poverty and exile writing books of his experience, and who influenced the German thinker Leibniz, the tribesman points out that violent punishments within a tribe were alien to them. The foolish authors suppose that this was due to lack of violent action in general, when it was strictly interior to the tribe, and imply by default that the European criminal code was just. A brief look at French and English laws in the period under discussion would find more than 200 capital crimes, including theft of food, fishing, hunting, foraging, homelessness and being without a job, a master, a freedom pass or a coin. Most people remain invisible to inquiry due to the refusal to acknowledge that all races of humans are capable, by using force and by submitting to force, of holding slaves and of being enslaved. This omission dominates the unrevealed subtext of this well-meaning and quite naive book.
This takes us back to a reference in the introduction of the book, from a letter by Benjamin Franklin, who they neglect to point out was once a runaway slave, ran thousands of adds for the recovery of his racial fellows, and invented the term “Indentured Servant” as a way to imply the agency of an enslaved person in response to the habit of servants electing to go off and fight highly successful Indian warriors rather than continue toiling for Englishmen.
Corruption #5
Franklin relates that tribesman gone English prefer to return to tribal life and that children abducted by tribesmen never wanted to return to English life and would runaway to the tribes. This was obviously an expression of servitude and enslavement in English society, with many so-called abductees actually being runaways to groups who were racially mixed, with half of the Delaware chiefs having Gaelic names. The authors agree that many Europeans found high positions in eastern woodland tribes, and fail to note that they did not in western tribes. Overlooking this fact permits the authors to neglect to mention that racial distinctions were rarely mentioned in the eastern woodlands. [3]
The Pre-Columbian Nordic/Gaelic migration hurdle cannot be crossed by academics, so will not be addressed here. What should have clued the authors in was this clause by Franklin:
[First, let us recall that Isrаel Potter mentioned being enslaved by “his friends,” in about 1770. I will comment in brackets.]
“...tho’ ransomed by their Friends [Franklin’s high case usage indicating a religious fraternity who collectively owns the individual.], and treated with all imaginable tenderness to prevail with them to stay among the English, yet in Short time they become disgusted with our manner of life [weekly beatings, imprisonment, travel restrictions, not being permitted to marry until 21 even for “free” men], and the care and the pains that are necessary to support it, and take the first opportunity of escaping again [escaping again, being an indication that these people had been liberated by the Indian ‘abductors’] into the Woods, from whence there is no reclaiming them.” [Reclaiming is not loving, familial action, but re possession of property.]
[One must pay attention to capitalized words of this period. “Woods,” being capitalized implies it as a refuge for runaways, not simply a land yet to be tilled, but a place where the people who would be forced to till the land already taken from the forest might run and hide.]
This final passage below went right over the daft academic heads:
“One instance I remember to have heard, where the person was to be brought home to possess a good Estate; [therefore a member of the planter class] but finding some care necessary to keep it together [beating the lazy and reclaiming runaways, paying taxes, fending off real estate lawyers, etc.], he relinquished it to a younger brother, reserving to himself nothing but a gun and a match-Coat, with which he took his way again into the wilderness.”
The authors seem to assume that the man merely had to tend a garden to maintain an estate, when he would have had to ride herd over probably dozens of unfree people bound to his service, the most able of which would seek their freedom, those too lazy to run staying behind to vex him with their poor standards of achievement.
Conversely, the authors fail to point out that most of the inhabitants of that wilderness would be that man’s enemies eager for his scalp. Hence the gun, and hence the even greater desperation of women and unarmed youths who ran away again without lethal means, indicating that slavery among Indians was preferable to slavery among English. No understanding penetrates the ivory tower heads that simply staying alive in that wilderness was harder physical work than what a planter did on his Estate. He left an Estate!
One thing unknown to the authors, was that the laws of The Province of Pennsylvania where Franklin became so highly placed after escaping from the daily beatings administered by his elder half brother who owned him as an apprentice, stipulated that when a crime was alleged between an Indian and a Planter that a jury of 6 Indians and 6 Planters was convened. Among these Indians were Chiefs with Irish names. The English laws extended to the Indians, as free men, and to the Planters, and granted ZERO consideration to Europeans who did not own other Europeans, for planter meant nothing more or less then the owner of other men to be planted on the work site. English freedom could only be had by two means: of owning humans, and by bearing arms for those power brokers who owned humans, these two facets of Plantation life central to Bacon’s Rebellion in 1676 and the American Revolution in 1775.
I shall maintain this book at my Portland residence, where I live with Anglicized Indians, and work over a section of this useful and hopelessly naive attempt to understand humanity from the viewpoint of those whose ethos it is to deny our shared humanity.
Notes
-1. For the interested reader, a better and thinner book, with much less modern feminist intrusion, is titled The Discovery of Mankind, by a man whose name begins with an A, and who wrote in the 1990s.
-2. The Huron had outlawed money as the prime corrupting agent of social decay, similar to how Germanic Odinists of about 100 B.C. outlawed money and maintained this ethic until the A.D. 200s. See Tacitus, Germania.
-3. Red Skin referred to war paint, not pigment. Names for Europeans included: wearers of leg coverings, wearers of hats, takers of fat, long knives, and most commonly French, English, Dutch, Spanish and American. Names for tribesmen from most to least common were Savage [dweller in the sylvan, woods], Heathen [non Christian], the name of the tribe, and gradually, generally and ultimately Indian.
05.04.25   dimitri — Regarding 2. Lycurgus also made Sparta use brittle, useless iron as money. He is supposed to have traveled and observed other cities before his role as law giver, so I assume he knew what he was doing. Maybe the nature of money, and who it actually serves, was already obvious at the time with the example of Athens and the Laurion mines.

I find it interesting that the Lords' prayer is sometimes translated as "And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors". The Father could be seen as a banker, who prints ("give us our daily/supersubstantial bread"), forgives "karmic" debts, and keeps score. Saint Paisios mentions how there's some form of accounting for chance; orphans getting some luck in life to compensate for their original misfortune, for example. He insists on accepting every hardship you can handle, and stoically deferring the good luck, that you are now due, to the afterlife.

Maybe, it makes more sense to rather say that it is bankers who imitate God. After all, you hold on to a token of currency hopefully not because you like the thing itself, but because you believe the next person you want something from, will also believe it is valuable. In that sense money's value is pure belief, a monetary system is a religion, and bankers are priests. Perhaps, the more one uses money, the more they accept a strange god's influence on their fate.
05.05.25   Todd Ianuzzi — ^^^ interesting
05.08.25   Eric — The author of The Discovery of Mankind: Atlantic Encounters in the Age of Columbus, is David Abulafia.
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posted: April 30, 2025   reads: 194   © 2025 Eric
‘Permission To Cease Shaving’
Meeting Andy Perry: Portland, Oregon, 12/24/24
A week ago I boarded the Coastal Starlight at 8:30 PM in San Jose. A man who was older, nicer, and larger than I by three good measures, waited for me to board ad then offered to assist with my tactical pack, which, at 28 pounds was almost too much for this runty bone rack to stow overhead. One travels alone on the train and finds himself bumped out of seats by couples, or, at better run stations, assigned a seat with another singleton. For this reason I meet new folks.
If it is a big man or a nervous woman, I leave and spend the trip in the cafe car. This fellow was six feet or more, so I spent the night in the main car. Feeling bad for my rudeness the night before, I bought us each a cup of coffee. His accent was Australian, modified for U.S. ears. I informed him that he was the second Australian in my life, and that the first one, John Byrd, was my employer some 40 years ago and hated me, declaring that I was a white aborigine. Andy spoke about the raw deal the Abos had got in his country and had some questions about my aboriginal existence before becoming a Tramp. I learned a lot and was pleased for such good company. I cannot reconstruct Andy’s words from memory. Below, I will note what I can recall of Andy’s story.
I will append Andy’s tail to Bob Johnson’s memoir, “I Could Not Kiss Ass!” as these men are mirrors of a masculine kind.
First, Andy is a fine figure of an old hand, still fit, with an easy way. He expressed a desire to finally take on a female retainer. Andy has a 34 foot ocean going boat, which he would like to staff with a crew of one, who, I reckon, based on his evident eye strain peering across the aisle at the lovely thing ensconced there in form-fitting white sweats, that an athletic, slightly plump, brunette who would like a real Captain in her life, will do nicely.
Send applications to jameslafond@proton.me. If you are not accepted by Captain Perry, never fear, some courtesy will be arranged by Andy’s talent scout.
Andy was born on Tasmania, the West Virginia Down Under, up in the mountains in very primitive conditions favored by his father. His father had fought the Japanese in Indonesia. He was also deployed, previously, I think, to Tabruk as it was taken by the Axis, to Greece as it was overrun by the Germans, and Crete as it was subject to the largest airborne invasion to date. He was the last man to leave Crete as it was taken. He then served in North Africa in numerous battles. As a veteran of the overused and mistreated ANZAC Corp, Andy’s father learned to distrust the government. Andy recalls as a boy that while hiking through the snow above Hobart to fetch supplies with his father, that the old man turned and told him he was making too much noise.
“My father moved in total silence—you could not hear him step.”
As a teen Andy had been driving illegally, to take his brother to Boy Scouts. The sheriff told his father that Andy needed to leave Tasmania or he was destined for jail. Andy went to sea in various capacities. He described himself as “a big lump o’ lad,” who was good for fishing vessel work and that he did not ever sail to Antarctica when the work was made available.
When he was old enough he joined the Australian Navy and became a helicopter pilot, after qualifying to be a fixed wing aviator. The Australian Navy “got rid” of their planes, so helicopters it wa. He was assigned as a Liason Pilot. His conditions of service can be accessed via:
www.HueyVets.com, official website of EMU, Operators of EMU 309.
Andy was attached to two U.S. Army helicopter units, one being a cavalry troop. He saw one of his American colleagues shot in the head and the copilot lift him from his seat, put him behind, and save the craft. That fellow ended up becoming a forestry firefighter in California where Andy had the honor of reuniting with him after having worked as a bush firefighter in Australia. He described Australian firefighting as a joke compared to American methods and that the ability for Americans to throw huge amounts of money at a problem makes them very effective. He also described Australia as “the 51st State,” discussing the fact that USG dictates his nation’s foreign policy.
Andy was thrilled to be tapped for missions by a U.S. Special Forces Colonel and irritated to be chewed out and removed from a mess for having an Australian Navy regulation beard by a lesser Colonel. That colonel was Andy’s job for the next day and expected that Andy would ferry him about despite the hierarchical acrimony. Andy said, “Colonel or not, I was the captain of that [helicopter],” and then played a game of what is the matter with the plane with his crew chief. Disgusted, the colonel stamped off and the men had a free day to “repair” the craft.
In Vietnam Andy discovered that some officers were trying to win a war and others were simply concerned about points of decorum. He informed me that the Navy could not grant permission to “grow a beard,” that being God’s call. Rather, the sailor was granted “permission to cease shaving.” Some time later, a week, I think, the resulting growth was inspected by an officer, and if it was not some weak affront to beardliness, nature was permitted to take its bristly course.
After combat service in Vietnam with U.S. warfighters, Andy and his mates returned to peacetime service in, Perth, I think. Here they were informed that their wild tales of combat were lies, that they had learned nothing, that no lessons were learned in combat that could possibly improve upon Australian Naval Aviation. The war vets were targeted as pariahs, and as he put it, the Navy was such a small place, that an enemy made of one officer was made of all. Andy and his fellows were shunned and shunted and he ended up not completing his hitch and went into private service flying in Southeast Asia.
Since his younger days Andy has worked as a pilot, a fire fighter, as a fishery hand and sport boat captain, has a great boat made of painted gum wood which he and his son and some other fellows operate out of a balmy inlet in the tropical north of his nation, Queensland I think. He is proud to have a son who has not joined the military and is “a real hard man,” who lives by a code of honor and “sorts out,” those lesser sorts of men who insist on trouble. Andy’s son actually built a bunk over top of the engine so that he can wake and go right to work on the motor when at sea.
Andy was a gentleman, and even made certain his seat mate for a night and a day made it off the train platform in Portland on, “those sticks,” and swore that my inability to stow my pack was the fault, not of my decrepitude, but of an obstinate can of Spam.
Andy Perry spends a month at a time touring America, hosted by U.S. Aviators he met in Vietnam, who are a true family to him.
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posted: April 28, 2025   reads: 209   © 2024 James LaFond
A Wondrous Find
Of Ageless Kites: Chapter 7: Captain
The mouth of the path was a cave—it must be a cave, for it was not buttressed, nut built of block, or bored with hard tools. The Germans were at the mouth examining it, one apparently having been a hard rock miner in his youth, a bearded man of 50. Bing-Ham was ahead in the deeper gloom of the “cave” which in his concourse had been named ‘Caverns of the Cairn Keepers.’ Yet now, in his deepened mind, he realized, had been his translation of the fungal thought, as being a passage made by a will and a way not of his kind, not human.
The German sergeant lit a chemical torch, an illuminating cousin of the Congreve Rocket, an eye irritant of the first order, which Richard resented, especially since it ruined his vision. He could no longer see Bing-Ham down the way, making his way by scent and creeping feel into the mountain, along the rising path. His vision adjusted and he could see what so fascinated the men—except for LaFano and Pope, who were watching him with expectant wonder and also the forest down and behind them, a forest which seemed to quiver. This forest quivered; the great boughs of the cedars seemed to sway and shiver, the moss clothing their trunks and spent lower limbs hanging like mutt hair from its shivering owner, the ferns below shivering, birds of various kinds they had not noticed, hiding high and wide, shrieked, peeped, keened and took flight far above the tree tops, like bats up out of a chimney. As Levsky was noting that the tunnel appeared to have been carved by a great squid, which he fancied might have a lair below that connected with the lake or the ocean, the earth quaked. His feet felt the rock under him sing like a great, pain-racked thing.
Richard closed his eyes and concentrated…
In his deepened and expanded mind’s eye he saw a pyramid, the top of which supported a candlelabra of sorts. The arms of this thing were of great brazen pipes. Upon these pipes perched the Phoenix, roosting above the pinnacle of the pyramid in pairs. There were nine pairs of these beasts. A single one flew around them in wide angry circles. At the base of this pyramid gathered men and women, naked save for white headbands, bejeweled with belts, bracelets, anklets and necklaces of white beads, kneeling in prostration at the base of the pyramid, beneath their avian lords. These great and evil birds peeped into the brazen pipes, amplifying their already horrid, ear-splitting call. For all this terrible show of sound, causing the humans far below to writhe in pain and cover their ears, Richard knew that this was merely the mesmerist’s slight of hand, that the earth tremble, the quake, was being caused by the joint Phoenix Mind. He knew with his fungal sense, that the keening was in part a funeral for the ones the Phoenix had slain, and in part a means to cave in the mouth of this tunnel or knock rock down on the U-Boat…
“Back!” he yelled at his men, who stepped away from the tunnel mouth.
A deep rumble sounded above: dirt, timber, rock and moss crashed down before them, injecting debris into the cave.
Richard turned and covered his eyes, calling to Levsky, “Face me away from the torch, up the grade. Put the torch man at the rear.”
Richard held his palms, amazed that he had, without a thought, or even a recollection of it, sheathed his sword.
Levsky turned him like a blindfolded boy taking his turn at pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey while the mountain rumbled. He was pushed up the incline gently, the quaking subsided and the men filed behind, marching parade wise in high steps to the German sergeant’s cadence, a morale-maintaining NCO’s instinct to focus his men under fire.
Richard gradually uncovered his eyes and saw the gloomy world before him in signatures of heat, a lineal world terminating in a gray dot up and ahead. That gray dot, he knew, was the saurian sky, the half light of the Valley of the Phoenix where those terrible birds roosted atop their pyramid.
Marching in cadence with them men, for whom his Sergeant was keeping time with the strident clap of his hands, to the German’s count, Richard could see the savage, prowling outline of Bing-Ham, not far ahead. That retrograde soul was not looking back, but down and to the side into various holes that were about five feet across, where this tunnel was a good fifteen. The man prowled on his haunches, sometimes using his left hand as a third leg, the other cradling his tomahawk.
‘How far will he devolve?’
‘I hope not so far as to lose my opposable thumb!’ came a friendly thought.
“God Bless your savage soul, Bing-Ham,” Richard spoke in a low tone, a tone that filled the cave like an anthem to the cadence of boot heels, creaking leather, clanking and clinking metal and the slither of something awful from the tunnels off and below to either side.
“Triple-time!”
And like a machine made of men they sprinted in line.
Richard prayed for whichever kraut carried the Crank Gun on his shoulder, ‘God Bless that stout kraut.’
Richard did not have his heels scuffed by the man to his rear, whoever that was, as the line of men behind him was illuminated only by sound. The bobbing of the torchlight behind made for a stage-like sense of being a poppet in a play. The pride in his quick stride swelled in him as they ate up the steeply rising tunnel in triple-time. The gray dot became a hole, then a moon, then a bleak sun, then a great window on a world topped by ice-capped peaks.
In that window stood Bing-Ham, looking down and about, in his posture, warning them that they would find themselves high on an eminence accessible to wined foes. With 20 strides to go the torch went out behind him, the bawling of time was silenced by his raised hand, and they came to stand with Bing-Ham, on a towering mountain ledge, cut into a cliff face, above a forested valley. The valley was thirty miles round, roughly, another volcano it seemed. The center, a mile in either direction was richly cultivated crop land, bisected by a slow river, a river that circled the base of a pyramid—the one from his vision—as moat.
Levsky noted, “That river does not flow into he lake. We are a mile higher then that valley and only climbed half of that.”
Richard nodded as the men crowded around and Bing-Ham pointed down between two stone and stucco posts where the ledge projected from the cliff face, about which were fixed to thick lengths of rough rope. Richard stepped to the edge and looked down, to see that the only means of descent from this ledge was down a rope ladder, that Bing-Ham, tomahawk in teeth, was already climbing to another, bigger ledge, 200 feet below.
Richard saw a flight of Phoenix rising from the pyramid and barked, “Color Sergeant, Pope and Krauts, stay here and cover our descend, then retreat and mine out to the boat. Levsky, Suvarov, LaFono, on me!”
Over the edge of an alien world he swung, between those two posts. His boot heels hooked the rope rung below, and he instinctively looked up at Color Sergeant Major, who was saluting him. With a warm rush, through the mutton-chop window of the Sergeant’s face, he smiled at Mum, on her widow walk, waving off a cup of tea because he was not yet home from cards.

This ends the last open posting of A Gaslight Knight at jameslafond.com
To find out what happened to Richard Mogadishu Barrett in the deceptive depths of Antarctica there are a few options:
-1. Wait for the Graphomaniac Archive #2 to appear as an ebook on this site in January 2026.
-2. Go the Pulp Fiction Renaissance site where Richard may post the final two chapters.
-3. Wait for Richard to put the entire book in print, as it has been gifted to him for paperback publication by this writer.
Additionally, though Richard did survive his adventure, so far as Chester Pullman, editor of the Baltimore Daily Raven can ascertain from the news buoy capsule recovered, it appears that our young hero has been dealt a hand by wicked Fortuna worse than becoming a tasty repast for some wicked, ageless kite. He has been sucked through the ether, via some vortex, into a money hunting world, and held here, against his considerable will, a world away from Czarina Svetlana, where he stacks gardening supplies at a “Depot” that is not a base camp for some expedition into the unknown, but a supply dump for the inmates of a dissipation camp to decorate their prison cells. So, men, if you please, find a paperback copy of A Gaslight Knight and encourage our hero to complete the trilogy and toss those news capsule buoys into the Ocean so that the agents of Theography might hurry them back to their curator.
-JL, Portland, Oregon, 1/18/25
Remaining Scenes of A Gaslight Knight
A Mutinous Kind
Of Ageless Kites: Chapter 7: Part 2 of 3: Crew
A Muscular Mind
Of Ageless Kites: Chapter 7: Part 3 of 3: Crew
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posted: April 27, 2025   reads: 141   © 2025 James LaFond
A Bit of 1066
A Saurian Blight: Chapter 6: Part 3 of 3: Kit
Having passed through the grove while Richard stood in strident concord and learned from his fungal tutor of the moment, the entire party waited on Richard. He was now the leader of their hearts, he knew, sensing it in his chest as We This One bestowed a final piece of advice, “Do not entrust the thoughts exchanged between you and We This One, to your kind, for your kind are not You That One, but a coil that chokes itself, a tangle ever resentful for being undone, as well for being begun. Keep our concourse between Richard The Outer One, and The Ultimate One.
“Agreed,” spoke Richard, still untrusting of telepathy and not yet sure of its extent, range, reception… there had been too many things to know of the Phoenix Kind:
That their females, to lay eggs must dine on these mushrooms in order to give birth to females, and that males were mute of mind, but not dumb. That those great pairs, never permitted to number more than twelve, were composed of a single motherly will that hated the human race as people hate cockroaches, bed bugs, lice and fleas. Unable to erase mankind Phoenix Kind sought to control their multiplication and the spread of the pathogens they carried, this being technology. This might have been guessed. But that those high order saurian minds had been driven here by the comet impact that destroyed most of their world and had also brought these sentient spores to this grove was beyond all reasonable theography.
‘This I might impart, but not the dream treading discipline gifted in parlay by We This One.’
No reply came from We This One, whose face now returned to its native, fungal form.
They awaited patiently, strung out behind the coppery, feral scout, who alone looked about and ahead, the rest looking at him as if expecting him to become a mushroom.
They then looked behind him with wider eyes as he passed through the large cedars that opened upon the steeper path winding up through the jagged-toothed jaws of the mountains, the river it has attempted to cling to having departed down to the right in a rushing of steep waters.
Richard turned and saw there, not the great mushroom or its hundreds of attendant fungi, but an onyx throne, upon which sat a creature that might have been an octopus, if it had thorny bark for skin and vines for tentacles, an organic creature, great-brained and narrow-mouthed, of great antiquity, frozen in some petrified state on that shiny black throne. The grove of trees, the ring as it were, remained, as did the blocks of volcanic rock spaced between. But the interior of the grove itself was now a tangle of thorny vines that quivered and shown with life, the vines themselves terminating in succulent purple flowers, very like the morning glories that had flourished among the tree trunks earlier. These were now replaced by these reeking, seeking buds, like so many thousands of little toothless mouths questing for nectar, drinking a few butterflies, whose surviving fellows yet flirted with flowery death.
Richard shivered and somehow knew that his communication had exhausted We This One, and that his psychic teacher slumbered for a nap that was likely to exceed Richard’s entire life.
Richard turned to face his men, the last waiting him being his faithful Sergeant and Levsky, “The intelligence did say that we must return to the lake by another, unspecified way.”
The Sergeant informed, “An hour until nightfall, Sir. You were sometime among the fungi.”
Richard looked for the sun and could not find it among the towering trees, knowing it to be low in the north somewhere. The Sergeant assured him, “Levsky has assured us that the night shall be brief in this latitude.”
‘I no longer care to define night or day, other than in shades of gray.’
“Yes,” he agreed, feeling how his feet had fallen asleep. Looking ahead at the gap in the trees afforded by the steeper and more narrow way up the gorge, he asked, “How far has it been scouted?”
“The Savage has been up to the top there. He no longer speaks English, has devolved on this very spot. He has intimated by gesture that you will understand him. At the top of the pass, a half hour’s way up rough going, he has indicated is a tunnel, formed by human hand, cut from solid rock.”
“I know. This is the entrance to the Caverns of the Cairn Keepers. We are to take no side passage, but stay to the elevated main grade. The ways were carved, but by no human hand, but by hands that yet reside among the byways which we are advised not to explore.”
‘I sound so empty and far away.’
He felt his left hand clench in anger at his failure to comfort his men, who looked at him in such terror, as if his words and the scene behind him had rendered him larger than life.
‘Oh, you taunting ghost hand!’ he looked down at what he expected to be empty space beside his sword hilt, and saw, his, left, hand, clenched… in, well, in anticipation of something to do!
He drew his sword in the rising guard, leveled it out to their gasping starts and pointed to the top of the pass, “Up the way men, behind our good scout, at the double, on allied alien assurances that the way to the top is clear, though the far side of the pass is thought to be by no means endeared to our arrival—and arrive we will!”
‘There, that had a little steel in it!’
Levsky looked at him level and with a question in his eyes.
“Yes, Commander, please, see if it feels real,” as he retired the riser of the double-edged blade to shoulder.
The Russian squeezed his wrist, poked his bicep, and examined the shoulder, were the sleeve so neatly ended. There they could see the more jagged wound trace, as if in shadow.
“I have the normal sensation of being griped and poked that I recall of boarding school bullies.”
Levsky agreed, took a close look at Richard’s right hand, shook it once, “Congratulations on your newfound friend, Captain. You are, I think, a Lucky man, some angel of God smiling upon you, and I should think that angel is Justice, that daughter of The Almighty that Hesiod fancied devolved her Father’s will on mankind. The Czarina was correct in measuring you an uncommon man.”
“Thank you, Commander. And I am sorry for the loss of your men. Shall we?”
The thin face, too dapper to be trusted fully and too confident to be doubted, grinned too boyishly to be affected, drew his own single-edged curved Cossack sword in his left hand, put it spine to shoulder and assured, “I I have the rear, Captain.”
Richard started out at the double, with no fear of his ankles failing him, for they seemed as good as old in their creaking cases of leather. As well, the Russian feet behind him had some work to do to keep up.
The way ahead, up the steep incline, reminded him that the Saxons had awaited his ancestors on an eminence, less lonely and no less daunting. He felt the voice that he had always fancied belonged to Wolfhound Barrett, the best of the line, well up from some depth within, a depth that pulsed into his veins and pumped as thought into his brains, ‘Feels like a Bit of 1066, My Somali-born Lad, if with a bit less kit.’
The thought felt like voice wrung from the sands of an hour glass to tinkle into a pool of clear water, and that pool felt like it was his mind.
‘Yes Wolfhound, You and Me This One!’
There it rang, in the deeps of his being, a laugh that slid like steel from leather, a laugh that he hoped world ring forever.
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posted: April 26, 2025   reads: 168   © 2025 James LaFond
‘A Product of Their Obligations’
A Toast from the High Seat; the Feast in the Viking Age James Andersen
Upon meeting James in 2022, or late 21, I think, he gifted me this university paper he wrote, in 18 point lucida unicode, so I could read it! I have finally taken the time to read his work. I have read Norse sources, but have not studied any of them. This reading has been a learning experience for me. Below I will note some of his major themes and offer some similar examples from other Arуan literature.
Gifting as the core to the privilege a tribal headman enjoys in leading his kinsmen, peers and loyalists is addressed early and continues as a theme. In civilization, the lower status people give to the higher status people. In tribal society, the flow of giving descends rather than ascends across warrior cultures.
Drinking as a social bonding action serves multiple purposes. Tacitus informs us that Germans never made a treaty unless over drink, and then ratified it soberly the next day. This practice survives among military men to this day, who do not trust the man who they have not seen drunk, when the affectations peel away. The place of the mead cup lady of the hall is predicted in Gilgamesh when the breweress bars the door of her tavern to the hero until he reveals himself of goodwill. This tradition was continued directly by the pyrates who revolted against Modernity in its early phase and wrote their constitutions and had trials over a bowl of punch.
Lineage, expressed before personal signification in Beowulf, is noted in the discussion of combining Viking funeral wakes and the feast of assumption of leadership by the dead chief’s successor, remains as important as it was to the heroes of Homer. From the earliest date it was important to declare one’s bloodline before a duel.
Bragging, so disgusting in modern, Christian-influenced society, is discussed as an actual necessity in a pre-literate age, so long as it is prefaced by a declaration of lineage, placing one’s father first. This is rock solid Arуan ethics and is most permanently reflected in the epigrams of Agon victors of ancient Greece.
Renown is actualized by the holding of a feast, the giving of gifts and the demonstration of a chief’s willingness to bring armed, drunken warriors together, even to conduct poetic insult contests. Not only is the chief showing his willingness to spread the wealth of success, he is conducting himself from the high seat of the hierarchy in a manner reflective of command over the chaos of battle, when cool heads direct hot actions at the best place, angle and time. In the Rage of Achilles, Agamemnon has violated this most ancient precept.
Death of a chief and internment in a barrow reflects a reciprocal trust that extends beyond life, that the chief who recognized and rewarded the acts and honor of his men, would be so recognized in death. These barrows are of the greatest antiquity, described in the first poem of heroic tradition from ancient Greece, Hesiod’s The Shield of Herakles. I contend that this work was more ancient than Homer’s work, though academia disagrees.
From the internment of the kings of Scythia to the funeral ships of the Vikings, we have physical evidence of this bond, as well as Hesiod’s notation that a river god might obliterate such a barrow, if a chieftain violated the precepts of piety.
Below are some select quotes:
“… the chieftain’s longhouse, itself the sun around which all the activities of the feast orbit. The food for the feast is hunted, fished, or grown within its domain, much of the alcohol is brewed nearby if not stored inside, many of the utensils and serving dishes were no doubt manufactured by craftsmen from the surrounding villages, in short, the longhouse was the center of the local world to which everything and everyone contributed.”
“The extent of Viking trade can be demonstrated by the fact that Sweden is a better source for obtaining silver (but not gold) Samanid coins than Afghanistan, where the coins originated.”
“...braggot (unhopped beer sometimes mixed with mead or other herbs for flavor) or ale, along with mead, often mixed together in a sort of beer-fruit wine and honey cocktail.”
“…the practice of flyting, i.e., ritualized exchanges of insults in verse, is well documented.1 A wide variety of games are known to have occurred, including board games2. Wrestling and tests of strength among men were equally popular, and meeting solely for the purpose of engaging in games was not unheard of.”
Odysseus among the Phaceans, and as the beggar in his own hall, both demonstrate the great antiquity of hall feasting as a social sorting mechanism.
“The organization of seating in the Viking Age hall was based on one´s position in the dominance hierarchy, where a seat closer to the chieftain was more respectable.”
Odysseus at the Door with the errand runner, who he must box to establish his place at the foot of his supposed masters, is a prelude to his slaughter of the men who had violated the sanctity of his hall when he was at war, as well as the favor of his queen, Penelope, who offers the most extensive portrait of the chief’s wife’s place as a logistical and confirming force in the ritual of the men’s hall, where women were active.
“The mediation of this tension is the purpose of the lady of the hall, who partly through her reassurances to less successful warriors prevents violence within her husband´s retinue.”
“…people of the pre-Christian era of the Viking Age viewed feasts as sacred rites, not mere earthly political undertakings.”
The Three Feasts
“…towards winter for a good season, one in the middle of winter for the crops, and a third in summer; that was the sacrifice for victory.”
There is an ancient legend that Simonides, the famous epigramist of Ceos, who immortalized the Spartans who fell at Thermopyle, was a guest at a chieftain’s hall in Thessaly. The chief held him captive under threat and his hall was leveled by an earthquake. The poet survived, some claiming that two angels, Polydeukes and Castor rescued him. Note that while Germanic and Viking feasts involved armed men, that Greek hospitality had evolved to the giving over of one’s weapon at the door, and that citizens of classical antiquity were generally unarmed in their own community.
“…drinking rituals are the focus of the literature. This may be because they were the most significant and unique events and those which were associated with bonds…”
“What is unique about the feast is not the feast itself, but the variations of it. From the feast, a variety of other events were associated. The feast was the cultural highlight of the Viking Age…”
James closes with a section from Beowulf which shows the feast in the great hall at its most cohesive, revealing the discord that the depredations of Grendel had caused in antithesis.
Timocreon, a boxer and butcher, was accused of hall treachery by none other than Simonides! Milo and other Olympic Victors engaged in feasting after the agons they contended in, always as a scared rite, and sometimes as a contest. The agons of Hellas, with the focus on sacrifice and truce, along with the prohibition of weaponry, seem to represent, not in infection of civilized enslavement of the warrior, but a method for scaling up friendly competition among many cities, consisting each of 2 to 12 tribes, by way of truce. It is no accident that the Macedonion hero king, Alexander, who exemplified the war chief like no other, attended the Olympic sanctuary at Elis.
Alexander & Attila
While Alexander attempted to expand the feast, gifting away everything and refusing to entertain betrayal at feast to the point of falling victim to poison, Attila simply scaled up the hierarchy and multiplied the frequency of feasting to the point where that indulgence seems to have killed him. This would be the fate of many Mongol kings. Tamerlane used the feast, without participating, as a management device, keeping all his plans to himself. In the light of these examples, I suggest the Viking Feast as very conservative, reserved for three seasonal events and for victories, mindful of resource limitations. The acceleration of alliance, acquisition, submission and distribution of power that propelled steppes conquerors seems to have exceeded the feast’s capacity as a social concord event.
Homer & Hesiod no doubt served in such halls as poets, as did Teraldus the Norman composer of The Song of Roland and the unknown and probably ancient composer of Beowulf. The poet seems to emerge as a third party replacement for the direct bragging and insulting of the more primal hall, exemplified in The Iliad, the Odyssey and Beowulf. It is likely, that Hesiod was murdered while following this capacity, eschewing the subtextual objections of corrupt rule favored by Homer for a blunt indictment of lords as “bribe-eaters.”
Christendom replaced the hall with the church, where God ruled, and removed the chief to his mostly empty hall, divorcing the people from the ruler and adding dozens of feast days for the people, who congregated with their lord on Sunday, in God’s Great Hall. This facilitated larger scale war-making and social control and was eagerly accepted by both classes. In The Song of Roland feasting is gone and is replaced by the Council of Peers.
The Drawing Room and the Fancy descend from the feast of the great hall and formed a refuge in modern times from the counting house and courtroom. The Fancy culture, which brought the disenfranchised urban nobility and rural working class together under the ceilings of inns and taverns and even in the drawing rooms of great men, emerged to support the heretical activities of gambling, prize-fighting and dueling across the Anglo World in a multi-class manner that exceeded the aristocratic reaction to the loss of the ancient hierarchical hall across the rest of the Arуan world. I suggest that this was due to the more complete victory of merchant ideology that emerged doppelganger-like thru Christianity in England. The church never prosecuted boxing and other masculine rites so much as the middle class and their police.
Thank you, James Anderson, who my webmaster calls “James the Innocent,” as a mirror upon some tarnished namesake.
04.28.25   Barry Bliss — Perhaps Mr. Anderson will publish this paper at some point.
04.29.25   James Andersen — Barry,

I did! It is available in a link at my website here:

jamesranders en.com/home/misc
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posted: April 25, 2025   reads: 276   © 2024 James Andersen
Where Have Our Captains Gone?
On Systemic Management of Reality Distance: 12/22/24, Portland
I had the pleasure of meeting a man who has been a captain, a captain of a boat in the south seas and a helicopter pilot in Southeast Asia in the conflict that has often been known as The Helicopter War. He is more than ten years older than I and offered to help me with my small pack, which I was having a hard time stowing. Too proud by half, I extracted the can of Spam that was holding up the stowage and said, “This is the offending party, Sir—I’m weak, but too proud to be outwitted by a can of meat, as well as bullied.”
“No offense. But I see you on sticks and with one eye…”
And this lesser geezer talked to that old hand for a good 10 hours. He made many friends among U.S. Army and Marine aviators, who he is currently visiting, in Vietnam when he served as an Australian Navy Pilot and Liason. Andy Perry, has assured me that some of his war stories are in a book titled Too Bold To Die, for which he was interviewed. I will write my recollections of his reflections in another article. I have noted him here, because his view of life as a captain of his own boat and of a government flying machine, as well as piloting for private companies, jives with everything that every military man has told me about modern military service—that the officers who do not go into combat, which is most of them, are far less concerned with “winning” the war they are in, than they are with hamstringing the warriors under their command. Soldiers, sailors, airmen and marines and such are fine, as long as they are as obedient as a whipped dog. But men who are warriors at heart, from top to bottom, are treated as full-time traitors to the system they serve.
Major Wolf, who was a major and acting colonel in the U.S. Army Rangers, told me that “colonel and up are political officers—management.”
Soldiers in recent wars have told me how they were not permitted to go after the enemy but instead shuttled women around who worked for government agencies so that they might insult allied patriarch warlords, or guarded opium supplies. A man currently in service has confided in me that in his elite tactical unit he cannot find a single sparring partner for unarmed or knife training, and that close range killer instinct is all but extinct among his fellows, that they are “just distance killers.” That phrase is key to this inquiry.
Distance.
Andy was among a small group of Australians who were “patched-in” to serve with U.S. forces. He told tales of how he and his men were harassed by a rear echelon colonel and tapped for unconventional services by a special forces combat colonel. Many acts that got things done were against the rules. Then, after a year of being in actual combat, he and his mates returned to the stay behind fellows in their naval aviation units. These combat veterans were “shunned,” “spat upon,” told that the experiences they claimed to have had were lies. None of the valuable combat lessons they learned were applied to training. They were drummed out of the service one at a time for being warriors.
This reminded me of the fate of successful Roman generals, who were hated by their masters. It also reminded me of what law officers have told me about the political controls that prevented them from protecting anybody. As well, the combat arts world in which actual fighters, men who have fought, let’s say with a stick, knife, bat, fists, are shunned and excluded by instructors and entire systems of “combat” for the very fact that they are combat experienced.
I had packed these notions of distance from reality being favored by our systems of delusion perpetuation away in the back of this dinged wrong think sink of a brain.
Then, with the perspective of distance, putting on my shaded distance glasses in the Dive Bar, I enjoyed quite a good NFL game, Chargers verses Broncos. An historic event occurred in which an interference with a fair catch of a punt, resulted in the choice of kicking a field goal from that deep distance, a kick that succeeded for the first time since 1976!
The ancient arena was a distraction for the mob, as well as a meditation on death in close combat which was the foundation of Roman social success imposed on some 39 nations.
Likewise Football is a mimic of American industrial might and management. It is not just a distraction for the idiot mob. Football is a genius construct, a veritable Enchidna, a titanic subtextual monster at one with the system. The NFL was supported by military ads when it turned on its rural fans in 2020, 21, 22, losing its base advertising, even serving as poling places for the 2022 vote that focused on urban over rural concerns.
Yes, there is much social conditioning built into the advertising, the rules changes, the carefully scripted off-screen management of commentator dialogue. There are now 8 opinion/editorial talking heads on every NFL telecast, all reading from scripts handed down from management! This is huge, a tripling of same time editorializing of the actions in the past generation. The constant audio management of the viewer is, from a social perspective, HUGE.
The benefits of conditioning Americans to see everything from an “us verses them” my team against their team, taking the focus off of the fan farmers who point the rival herds of animals at each other like politicians, is obvious. Yet, this false duality construct is better than politics, as the controlling hand is more artfully kept from view. The real “us versus them” construct, in the minds of free people, would be fans against team owners. But the team owners increase their troves by farming our herd instincts through the use of avatars. This suppresses our pack instincts, as the pack instincts that made man what he once was, are acted out and satiated on the false field.
After speaking with Andy and reflecting on the Roman Arena, I saw the use of football in a nation whose business is starting wars that it does not wish to be won, in a deeper light.
The obvious fact that NFL quarterbacks are natural captains leaps from every game. These are high functioning American-style captains, men whose actions are directed by audio commands and wrist-mounted doctrine options by genius level managers in the high boxes, who make the actual decisions. A captain acts in crisis according to a code in free situations [frontier/piracy/etc.] and according to his orders, in military and football settings. For every man on the field there are 10 on the sidelines and in the command posts, very much like WWII American warfare. [0] Quarterbacks and defensive and special teams captains are the kind of men that would have been the centurians of Rome, who were once the actual captains of ships that peopled the world, the captains of frontier stations, the men who rose through the ranks in all-in wars that once mattered to become generals that won battles and conquered nations. NFL quarterbacks are all college graduates. They’re specialty is winning in close perilous situations, and of obeying and amplifying their genius masters pulling their mental strings from unseen vantages.
Winning is winning. A brilliant masculine mind, who has been assigned a map of the battle, who is appraised of values of the combatants, and is educated in the rules of the conflict that must not be breached less his master’s goals concerning the post-war peace advantages that are the goal of the contest, is the best man for that task. If, Earth was attacked by aliens, the existing combat officers would best be replaced by NFL quarterbacks, advised by the sergeants. The higher officers, everybody in management up to the Joint Chiefs, would be replaced by coordinators, coaches, scouts, managers, owners taken from the NFL—if, the goal was to win.
If you want to win, you tap winners for the task, not the task specialists, who should assist the winners. America fights its wars, since 1946, in such a way that would be like boxing bouts decided by the cut men battling it out while the prizefighters gambled on the outcome.
But, the goal is not to win.
Winners are instinctively drummed out of every civilized military establishment as soon as the system they serve is no longer subject to a terminal threat. [1]
Since the time Andy Perry flew to the rescue of American warriors in an alien land, over 50 years ago, it paramount that the Seattle Seahawks win their game today, with players valued at the cost of tanks and planes. But USG war fightes have been denied the taste of victory, and the people they supposedly represent care more about what goes down on the human chessboard called a gridiron then in any of the wars fought by “their” nation between 1946 and 2024? [2]
The aliens are here, above us, the enemies of all mankind, who use our very best winners to play games rather than lead an escape from the prison farm where they harvest our bodies and souls for their unsavory feast.
Notes
-0. WWII remains in book shelves as 90% of military history in American stores. 6% is civil war, 4% the other 10,000 years. This is evidence of a deep, frozen retardation of current American curiosity and perspective.
-1. Victor Davis Hansen’s Hero Generals is a good study of this, as well as my parallel project The Son of God, posting at:
-2. As football has overtaken baseball in popularity, American public attention to USG wars has declined along an opposite arc. In the age of Baseball, before 1946, Americans cared about the wars its soldiers and sailors fought. There is a corresponding, perhaps corollary reflection of this in the incline of aviation warfare alongside the decline of public attention to war.
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posted: April 23, 2025   reads: 234   © 2024 James LaFond
‘Drinking Men’s Blood’
Or ‘Tears of Blood’: The Shield of Herakles by Hesiod
The curators of this poem decry it as “spurious,” written by another, later, poet under Hesiod’s name. And perhaps it was, perhaps too was the Odyssey composed by a son or assistant of Homer, such like Plato wrote the dialogues of Solon and Socrates, Theophrastus the works of Aristotle, and without Arrian’s pen we would not have the works of his teacher, Epictetus. Yet, this briefer, and in some ways better, poem concerning a shield decorated according to the life of a classical community, speaks less to every day life and more to strife then did the work of Homer in the Iliad under The shield of Achilles. The curators also name the shield of Herakles as a mere imitation of this work, yet both were composed by contemporaries of the 700s B.C. the city described on the shield is that of Thebes, of Seven Gates, the principal city of Hesiod’s home region, the city of Antigone.
The poem begins with Herakles and Iolaos, his heroic companion and chariot driver, about to travel through a sacred precinct on diplomatic business, with full knowledge that Kidnus, a vicious bandit and demigod, a son of War [1], and his father, War Himself, would waylay them. Herakles orders Iolaos to avoid combat and leave the enemy to him, his companion agreeing to act as his squire in this affray. The lead horse is a black-maned stalion.
This alone, shows Herakles as a past master of War, as he recounts how he laid War low once, placing him as something of an Alexander, a Nathan Bedford Forest, a Patton, who throve on the battlefield that ruined most and did so in protection of those not so completely designed for battle. As an allegory, we are possibly being treated to a case of war cause, where a simple visit to an ally, brings about the jealousy of a minor war chief, who brings in those who he owes fealty to by his own rash demise. Herakles does try a parlay and is attacked by Kidnus, which assures that the heavenly sire of the bandit will seek revenge.
Gray-eyed Athena, who wields the storm-shield, “equal in Might to Zeus Almighty” and therefore the angelic agent that assures the reader that “all-seeing” Zeus whose least favorite heavenly son is War, is focused upon this act of his half-human son Herakles being attacked like a bastard by a jealous older step-brother. As the listener to Homer knew that Achilles had long ago died at Troy, the listener to Hesiod knew as well, that Herakles had been hated by most of the heavenly powers, had slain monsters, helped, tricked and aided gods, served kings, fathered a human line, committed some atrocious act upon his own wife, and in madness cut down a forest as his own funeral pyre, and mounting it, sent his own smoke up to heaven, where the immortals agreed he had earned a place in their ranks.
Achilles and Herakles, whose son and grandson would fight each other at Troy [2], were both doomed heroes with merely enough of the divine in them to dominate men in battle, but not to outwit the honor-skulking lords of men, but only to outwork them. These heroes appealed to the working man, the fighting man of low rank, and to those few war chiefs who lead rather than directed men in war, like Alexander, who sacrificed to Herakles after every battle. Their shields, both wrought by the arts of Hephastius, armorer and tinker of the gods, who used robot assistants, represents scenes of strife and concord on their faces. The shield of Herakles has a stronger focus on strife. The shields themselves have various metals and other arts used in their composition, which is a way of declaring man’s use of fire that had been taken back once by Zeus, and then stolen and gifted to man by Prometheus. The shield, along with the rage of Achilles who went to the underworld, and the dogged prowess of Herakles who was admitted into the overworld, represented a divine acceptance, even assistance, in man’s challenge to both metaphysical realms.
Made by one god, permitted by the Almighty, brought by yet another god, and used to battle rival men and extra-human powers on earth, the shields of Achilles and Herakles were the ancient equal to the swords of Roland and Arthur, of the horn of Roland. From a Christian perspective the minor helper gods are angels and the monsters and evil gods are demons and devils. The shield represents war threatening and defending humanity, the favor of heaven in war, and of the imperiled community protecting the mind and supporting the efforts of its hero. Where the modern hero is outcast for the crime of fighting and is sent to the margins in disgrace, resented most of all by his military and political superiors [3], the ancient hero, if slain is honored by some immediate construction, not by some belated guilt-inspired monument a generation or more later. If victorious, after a purification rite, to make certain he has not been infected by the terrible essence of war to his core, he is accepted back into the community. Thus, the god-given shield in myth is an affirmation of the hero. [4]
“Or like her… from her head and her dark eyes was a blowing grace,” begins the story of Herakles, with the plight of his mother, Alcmene, Electrion’s light-stepping daughter.”
“Meanwhile, the father of gods and mortals was weaving another design for both gods and men, who eat bread… That very night he [Zeus] lie with Electrion’s fair-stepping daughter.”
Zeus impregnated the wife of Amphitrion, shepherd of the men of Thebes of Seven-Gates with Herakles, who fathered a lesser brother. Iolaos, Herakles nephew, is the son of Herakles’ half-brother.
Herakles comes upon Kidnus in the precinct of Apollo, the god of arts and far shooting dooms, who brought Herakles upon the “high-hearted son of Ares” who was using Apollo’s sanctuary to ambush wayfarers. Ares s a mad god, a maniac rushing and roaring.
Below I shall note some of the aspects of the shield of Herakles:
“A wonder to look at for all about the circle of it with enamel and with pale ivory and with electrumn it shone, and with gold glowing it was bright, and there were bowls of cobalt driven upon it.
“In the middle was a face of Panic [6] not to be spoken of, glaring on he beholder with eyes of fire glinting, and the mouth of it was full of teeth, terrible, repulsive, glittering white.
“While over the lowering forehead hovered a figure of dread, marshaling the slaughter of fighting men, cruel spirit, who took the senses and the perception and the will to fight out of warriors who faced Zeus’ son, the War God. [7]
“And the souls of these went under the ground to the house of Hades, and lie there, while the bones with the rotting flesh festering upon them remained above on the black earth, under the sun star’s withering…”
This begins a brutal, graphic picture of war worthy of Hieronymus and other artists of the Reformation who depicted men as nihilistic ciphers afflicted by witches, devils and demons. Snake-haired furies collect the bodies of the dead, death herself leading off a dead man and one living to. Tin worked in the face of the shield provides various scenes. The most telling scene is of a pack of boars and a pride of lions battling, one lion having already slain some boars but pig kind not giving back, but fighting on. This recalls the boar tusk helmets of the Homeric heroes and also of Beowulf, a symbol of stubborn defiance against greater force. Likewise, the lion’s mane is the model for the medieval crown, based on the ancient snake-inspired diadem of rulers, which gave way in the heroic age of Feudal Christendom to the leonine crown.
“The figures of Onrush and Backrush, on it the figures of, on it Battlenoise and Panic and manslaughter were blazing, and Hate was there, with Discord among them, and Death, the destroyer…”
Yet, beyond this, was a seven-gated city, outside o which old men prayed to Heaven to spare their community. Within the walls men and women went about workaday tasks, and also enjoyed boxing and chariot racing contests. This presentation is less extensive than that of the Shield of Achilles, with Hesiod’s emphasis on the superhuman powers which afflicted those men who were out afield protecting this city.
Athena attends the battle, advising War against the combat with Herakles, “wearing the gloomy aegis.” Hesiod’s various descriptions of the aegis assures us that it originated with a concept of storm and the shielding of man from storm, related both to the shield and the origin of the shield, the animal hide, draped over the left arm.
“Well-versed in the toil and sorrow of battle,” Herakles kills Kidnus and wounds War, who is born off by his demonic attendants, Fear and Rout. Herakles and Iolaos stripped Kidnus of his amr and drove to the Citadel of Trachys, which had been their destination. Kyex, “who was a friend to the blessed immortals,” was buried by the various inhabitants of the local cities in solemn ceremony.
The poet, Hesiod, concludes, with compassionate tones:
“But the river Anatus, swollen with winter rain, obliterated the barrow and the grave, for this was the will of Leto’s son, Apollo, because Kyex had waylaid and robed the offerings as men brought them to Pytho.”
Pytho was the sanctuary of Apollo, the Shining One, whose oracle would one day demand that Hesiod’s grave, near where he was murdered in the sanctuary of Nemean Zeus, be moved to a better place.
Hesiod proved to be a prophet of numerous events after his life, and in this, his neatest effort, closely based on Theogony and Works and Days, takers of other men’s work by force, and Robbers and Murderers, in the person of Kyex, even with the sanction and aid of War, are punished by the acts of a hero under the sanction of the better angels of Heaven.
Notes
-0. “Arion of the Black Mane”
-1. Ares is also wounded by Diomedes in the Iliad, and stands alone as the god most often wounded by mankind. This reader takes the plight of Ares, monster child of heaven as a sign of a higher indulgence for our kind.
-2. Quintus Smyrneus, The Fall of Troy, Book 8, Alexander was descended from Neoptolomas, son of Achilles, who sacked Troy and killed and grandson of Herakles. He therefore sacrificed and atoned to the deities offended by his ancestor after battle and at Troy.
-3. Rome was very modern in this, with victorious generals almost assured of being murdered by those they served, in the same way that Patton was done away with by USG and the general fear of combat veterans by USG subjects. Note how every western hero in movies must ride into the sunset and may not stay in the community he served. Latinus, son of Odysseus and Circe, twice bedding goddesses, was called by Hesiod powerful and thoughtless, a characteristic that that nation would carry down through Late Antiquity.
-4. While Samson is the best Biblical counterpart of Herakles, it is David, poetic hero king, who in his psalms recognizes he has been provided a shield from heaven. As well, the minor angels are said to bear swords at gateway places.
-5. Gold alloyed with a small part silver
-6. Or Rout, One of War’s attendants, along with Discord and Fear.
-7. Herakles is about to fight War, with War’s own mirror upon his arm.
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posted: April 21, 2025   reads: 213   © 2024 James LaFond
Hunting Hell
A Saurian Blight: Chapter 6: Part 2 of 3: Crew
The stream was deep, about a fathom, swelling over rounded rock between mossy, fern-festooned banks near full flood. A man tossed into that current would be swept away.
Bing-Ham had tripped off his shirt slacks and tie to expose his bronzed stoutness in a savage loincloth. He stopped and took his left hand, the right forever holding the tomahawk and drew aside some moss to expose a black earth, a rich ashen clay which looked like potting soil. He used this to smear his body. He then took that sheet of moss and scrubbed his face, staining it, then streak his face with the black soil. This strange tableaux held for a minute as they all looked nervously about at their new primeval setting.
Something darted across the stream ahead of Bing-Ham, a large ostrich with an ax-like beak, much heavier than an ostrich, splashing through the from west to east, then looking north down the trail at they the invaders. This thing seemed entirely flightless, its wings used for balance only. In the eyes it demonstrated a brute, reptilian ferocity, a crimson red like the Phoenix, but without that keen intelligence. What intelligence there was there did denote a ravenous need to feed.
The thing keened like a horn stepped forward and Richard drew his revolver, raising is other hand to hold fire, and realized, once again it was not there. The Sergeant noted this and raised his. Something about that tall man raising his hand set the bird in a fury. It was perhaps nine or ten feet as it reared, then blew its horn like call, and strode off in a lumbering gait to the east, through the thick crackle of fallen boughs and the rustle of brushing ferns.
Bing-Ham breathed a sight of relief, as did they all and the pace was regained, a slow walk, that permitted the scout to check the trail and pick his way, the officers to look ahead and behind and the NCOs to the side, the soldiers following their leaders gaze for quicker action. Richard notes noted that his men LaFano and Pope were armed each with Colt 0.45 caliber revolvers on their right hip, a German trench knife on their left hip, and that a boarding ax, a wicked modern take on Bing-Ham’s Indian ax, rode easily, even criminally in their left hands.
Along a gentle rise they traced the east bank of the river among the ferns, giant ferns, cedars and willows. One gigantic alder, a great almost white tree, was hollow on its north-facing base, between two great roots. There, looked out upon them an armadillo that must have been as large as a prize hog. It backed further in and blinked its dull glassy eyes at them.
In the trees, parrots flocked, ravens stood off alone or in pairs, like witnesses to eternity. The river was inhabited mostly by trout and sturgeon. Where the birds spied upon them attentive to their presence, the fish, who could have been threatened by men, seemed unconcerned with their passage and even their drawing of water. This water was the coolest, most pure and satisfying water Richard had ever tasted.
‘Do Phoenix Kind dip into our habituation zone to feed on our minds, our souls, like we draw water and even fish from their life’s stage?’
‘Yes,’ came a thought into his mind, from a source he had not since been contacted in this way.
Svetlana was a telepath. Bing-Ham’s savage genes somehow permitted him to intuit his thoughts… and required close proximity. The terror bird that had somehow transferred to him this ability required one to hear its song or gaze into its eyes.
‘Who or what is this?’
‘Come closer,’ came the thought, ‘you know the way.’
“Yes,” he muttered, “300 paces ahead…”
“No,” cautioned Bing-Ham, placing is hand on Richard’s shoulder and breaking the spell, “Sir, do not muse or mull over thoughts. As men use traps, wire, mines to protect our fortresses, Phoenix Kind target the mind.”
Richard shook himself, and found he was being regarded by LaFano in a brash way. Richard snorted, “Why, of course you are immune!”
“To what, Boss?” answered the little old goon.
Richard, sighed, lowered his head, and asked, “Honorable footman, please, take the lead, just behind Bing-Ham, and let not a thought upon the fate of humanity trouble you passage.”
“Yez, Boss,” obeyed the brute, and jaunty as a cock took up the trace, Pope second, Richard next, and Color Sergeant Major fourth in the depleted Barrett contingent.
‘It is hard not to wonder in such a place of wonder.’
‘Yes, indeed Outer One,’ came the alien thought.
Barrett stopped and looked at Bing-Ham, hissing, “I am cursed with a rampant mind.”
“Or blessed,” hissed the man of science devolving to his savage ancestry before his eyes, “The footmen and I will stand watch, Sir.”
The Color Sergeant signaled for a watch of the line, to which the Germans crouched and faced in all directions, at the grim ready. The two Russians hurried to his side.
Richard hissed, “Are you getting the thoughts?”
“Captain,” whispered the Russian, “my mind is impenetrable. I am a duelist; what to others is empathy is to me an anatomy of my foe’s weakness. I, am a psychopath. Only honor and duty keep me from the monstrous path.”
“An intelligence is beckoning me to come to it 300 paces ahead. A trap, an ally, a ruse?”
The thin mustache of the Commander mimicked his narrowing eyes as he determined a course, “We are headed there, in any event—beating the bush will run us into one of those terrible flightless birds.”
Richard looked to his sergeant with a nod and the tall man signaled ‘Line ahead,’ and they marched, warily, deeper into the meadow which did decline and become moister before rising again some 300 paces ahead.
Levsky hissed, “Something on the first low bench, look at the size of those trees where the game path winds.”
“A grove, a circle of great cedars.”
Savage Bing-Ham was creeping up the incline ahead, LaFono and Pope spread out behind foot-padding their way through mossy deadfalls, waving ferns of an enormous size, the coppery trunks of cedars. A great variety of fungi sprouted in all colors. Something like morning glory, in great profusion, crept its ivy way up the certain trunks of the circle of great trees up and ahead about which no four men could link hands.
He was glad to see butterflies doing their work. Bing-Ham arrived at the grove and skirted it. The Footmen stopped at the base of two great trees upon which the white flowered morning glories, the bane of any a gardener worked their vampiric way.
In a mere minute Richard arrived between his footmen, who stood like sentinels, nervous ones as afraid to be afraid as they were of entering this ring of trees, trees that were so vast in size, that despite being fifty paces apart, but little sunlight filtered down to the meadow, a meadow absent grass yet lush with ground cover: heather, trumpet vine, clover and deep green moss clinging to the southern side of the trunks and large glassy rocks that seemed to have been placed between the tree trunks.
There was this one path entering up the slight rise, and then bisecting the grove, making a trodden circle around a purple dotted mushroom of unfathomable size.
Richard stopped, shocked at the sight of such a fungi. More shocking yet was the thought that came to his mind, ‘Welcome Outer One. Would you prefer a face after your form?’
He heard the men lining up behind him and forming a small cordon.
‘That would be nice, I suppose particularly for my friends.’
‘Enter, Please, Richard, the Outer One.’
Richard noted that the meadow was become profuse with large mushrooms. These were in kind like this five foot fungi with a round cap of purple dotted white, which grew to six feet, to these ankle-height attendants. As he walked in, the rest stayed back. The meadow floor fairly sprang to life with myriad tiny versions of this mushroom. The spongy under section of the cap, spotted with inky dots, gradually formed into something like a human face, giving the appearance of a large-nosed, narrow-faced man with alabaster skin spotted in purple. There was no mimicking of teeth in the mouth.
Standing before the giant mushroom, with a manlike face, he announced this weird audience, “Captain, Sir, Richard Barrett, In Service to The British Empire, in Association with Various Parties with grievances against the Phoenix, who have attacked us in our country, who we have traced to the valley at the head of your river. I seek permission to pass with my party.”
The mushroom was unable to make sounds, though the face mimicked his speaking mechanics, even the tilt of his head to the left for emphasis, which he did not think was so pronounced.
The thoughts were not harsh like those of the Phoenix:
“They feed upon We This One, fallen here as colonists when their kind where driven from your world by the extra solar body that brought We This One.”
Understanding something about gardening and foraging from his youth above Loch Raven, and knowing mushrooms to be clones, Richard responded, “Do you grow beyond this grove?”
‘We This One do not desire to propagate beyond.’
‘Richard, the Outer One, you and yours may pass. Thank you for not feeding upon us.’
“Do not eat the mushrooms—they are sentient, telepathically so,” so Richard waved the party onward through the grove, staying to the last as he was advised by We This One.
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posted: April 20, 2025   reads: 168   © 2025 James LaFond
A Reader In Need
One Of Our Readers Burned Out In LA Fires
Some months ago Ruben and his family were tragically burned out, losing everything, including the death of their pets. There is a link below in case you have the ability to help out. Ruben was texting me while he and his family were sleeping on the ground this winter. They are trying to rebuild.
04.20.25   Ruben Chandler — Thank you James. All goes well you will have a home with us too.
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posted: April 20, 2025   reads: 306   © 2025 Ruben Chandler
Fawking Hell, Boss!
A Saurian Blight: Chapter 6: Part 1 of 3: Captaincy
It was all a rush to avoid an opposed landing, opposed by air and underwater no less. The U-Boat had a number of inflatable skiffs that would be of dubious usage for equipment, especially with the infestation of short-necked saurian “sharks”; something like giant penguin filling the role of a sea lion and developing a blow tube fin on its back. These things kept their distance from the U-Boat.
Bing-Ham supposed that they had a sound wave feedback ability, like whale kind, sensitive to metal. The Crew Boat held 12 men. Four oars and a rudder required a mate and four sailors. The aluminum boat itself had been stowed in aft hatch, this itself a wonder of Teutonic logistics to Richard.
That left seven men for selection. This would be up to Richard as the terrestrial officer. All but the First Officer, now Captain, and a few crew were on deck. A deck gun had been cranked up out of a hatch, a 40 millimeter weapon with round sights designed for shooting things in flight. Three men manned that.
The Second Mate and the four most dauntless sailors stood at attention. They were each armed with a stamped steel 9 mm pistol in a belt case, which he thought was a neat wonder, but too weak to hurt the Phoenix. Each had an 8 mm Mauser carbine with a belt box of ammunition and bayonet. The Mate had one of the very interesting revolver carbines slung over his shoulder and a straight naval cutlass at his hip.
“Seven then,” he said.
Donetz affirmed this with a grave nod.
“Levsky and Suvarov, of course.”
Svetlana was giving him a sulking look, and so he passed over her in the selection.
“Myself, Color Sergeant Major, LaFano, Pope… Bing-Ham.”
“O’Neal, I am sorry. You distinguished yourself. But have suffered a wound of sorts. Besides someone my Mum can stomach listening to must survive, if I do not return.”
He noted the deep flows of three glacier steams feeding into this massive lake, knowing there would be certain lesser creeks and inlets hidden form view.
He nodded to the mate and Sergeant and the men began boarding the boat, armed to the teeth.
He then looked to Pullman, “Sir, do you have reporting capsules?”
Pullman grinned, “In the absolute, Captain,” and motioning to the reporter whose name Richard had never bothered with, for which he felt rude. This man brought forward a harness, like a grenadier would have with his long handled stick bombs strapped to it. Only this contraption, now put on and buckled by the newspaper man over his service jacket, had four gray metal tubes of ribbed steel. The reporter briefed him as he buckled:
“Each tube has ten pages of parchment, more survivable than paper, with a pen. The end unscrews and is air tight. The button inside the cap activates a wireless “sonar” ping developed by the German U-Boaters. What issues into this lake does reach the sea. Though we would rather greet your safe return, Sir. It is my honor. Your are buckled in.”
The boat was ready to make way. Richard took the man’s hand, looked him in his watery green eyes, under that fop of thinning hair, “The honor is mine, Sir. You are?”
“Bradly Kennan, Sir, investigative journalist with the Baltimore Daily Raven.”
Richard patted the man on the shoulder, saluted the slight crew, tipped his cap to the Czarina Svetlana, who was nearly in tears, and then took his way down expertly, clearly remembering his one arm, with boot and hand down the ladder, his revolver and sword riding easy on his hips and the four news capsules feeling like a bit of armored kit from some bygone age.
Helped down to the boat deck by Levsky, who handed him a nautical kraut spyglass, Richard felt the cold misty lake and the weird creatures swimming within. He looked overboard to see down through the azure clear water as the saurian sea lions swam down and away, some hundreds of feet, looking up at them with strange intent.
The men began to pull on those four oars and propel them at a gainful pace. A few hundred yards and they would be ashore. He saw LaFono, with the Furgeson Crank gun strapped to his back, knowing that any mishap would plunge his footman and the valuable equipment to the bottom.
He looked to the shoreline all about, over the 180 degrees not blocked by the surprisingly large U-Boat, and noted that the trees were not all ever green. No oaks or maples were there, but alder. The cedar with its hanging fronds and red skin-like bark were the predominant plant. The water cold water of the rivers hit the warming water of the lake and turned to a mild mist at the shore line, which lapped on mossy rocks of black, the stone predominantly volcanic. The 180 degrees west and north soared the towering cliffs of the inside of a shattered mountain, making for their expedition a grim backdrop. The only egress would appear to be the tunnel through that black wall.
Bing-Ham caught his inner note ad whispered, between the pull and dip of the oars, the only sound here about, “This is, I suspect, a volcanic caldera. Expect increasingly arctic conditions and a change from cedar to pine as elevation increases.”
A great sloth was seen drinking from one of the glacial rivers, the nearest one, the mouth of which was perhaps 30 paces across.
Bing-Ham noted, “I will make the maps, Sir. I have an exact topographical mind. Your impressions will be duly captioned,” as he tapped a leather case on his chest. The man also wore a tomahawk, a Bowie knife and a bone scalping knife.
‘No gun?’ thought Richard.
“No, Sir, I do not favor the gun. I will fashion a spear, and a bow, the sinew for which rides in this, my medicine bag.”
The man tapped a pouch on his hip as he pointed with his chin to a flight of real parrots, actual parrots, not the massive devil birds, but green, orange and blue decked birds with wingspans exceeding that of any eagle.
The shore was only 100 yards off as he glanced back to see the U-Boat growing small in the distance. Most of the crew was inside, the gunners and officers there, O’Neal waving to him from the deck, such a loyal man.
He could see her there and turned his spyglass, wanting to get one more look at that pretty face of deep serious calm.
She smiled, knowingly, so he thought, ‘See you soon, Milady.’
‘Yes,’ he felt her in his mind as she smiled and the broad shoulders of her maid interceded.
A touch on his shoulder brought him around with his spy glass, Levsky pointing to a distant peak between a gap in the forest caused by the river whose mouth they approached on the north side. Spying southeast he could see, with that magnification where the pass opened into a valley surrounded by hump-backed peaks to east and west. The valley was backed by a bald dome of a barren peak, and icy eminence that towered far above the perpetual cloud line that ringed this valley from the rising mist.
There, he could plainly see two of the great birds circling far and away, perhaps 20 miles distance as the Phoenix flies.
The boat ground to a stop on a bed of round, glassy river rock. He leaped out first onto the mossy shore, as he closed the spyglass, his ankles holding in his medical boots. He turned and ordered, “Stow and cover the boat between those two great cedars, Men, then after me up the river to the fiend’s den!”
‘Caution, my Gaslight Knight,’ her mind warned into his, and he smiled, not permitting his operational focus to be diverted by his weird and wonderful gift from those terrible birds.
‘Besides, Bing-Ham might be privy to our correspondence.’
“Not at all, Sir,” said Bing-Ham, sticking behind him like a shadow. “If you please, Sir, I should take the trace lead and check the way.”
“Of Course, Bing-Ham to scout.”
He then paused, “Levsky and crew, rear guard.”
The Russian officer and the German mate saluted him and waited for the scout to make ten paces while the men stowed the boat, then Richard lead off with his tiny force.
The Color Sergeant assured him, “Well done sir. A strong rear it is. Pope, LaFono be ready with the Crank.”
LaFano complained, “Fawking Hell, Boss, my back is bent to broke.”
Richard halted, “You are right. Sergeant, assign the heavy ordinance to the German crew. I dare say they will make better use of it.”
And the expeditionary shuffle was on, the final dispositions made at the pace in time where the green forest swallowed them and took away the view of their iron whale.
‘We Jonahs, Lord, please bless our way.’
04.20.25   Ruben Chandler — Genius. Those guys used to dock in NYC and go to the movies and bars and dancing at clubs
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posted: April 19, 2025   reads: 247   © 2025 Ruben Chandler
‘Totemic Shock Troops’
James Anderson on Berserkers
April 8, 2025
James,
I hope all is well. I was enjoying your recent podcast with Jeth about berserkers, not only for your flattering words about myself which soothed a head still aching from sparring. I found your investigation of the ‘Berserk’ state throughout antiquity fascinating. I think there is a lot to be said for the ‘trance’ being achieved in multiple ways, and your description of the realm of time and measure which fighters enter in this state was poetic. I was inspired to offer what I know about the Norse Berserker to enrich the conversation.
In Old Norse Berserker can mean “bear shirt” or “bare shirt”, either referring to the totemic animal cult of the indo-europeans or to their habit of going into battle bare-chested. I see no reason that it didn’t refer to both meanings to the people of the Viking Age, who tended to be much less rigid about definitions than moderns.
The cult of the bear is very old in Scandinavian mythology, and one of the greatest heroes of the Saga of Hrolf Kraki is one Bodvar Bjarki,who was able to enter a trance like state and become a bear in battle (I particularly enjoy this depiction of him).
The bear is not the only totem of the berserks, the wolf and potentially the boar are attested by archaeological and saga evidence. It is interesting to note that warriors who we would call berserkers but who wore wolf skins are sometimes called ulfheðnar (wolf-skins). I doubt they were considered differently from the bear-skin warriors; the Germanic warriors depicted on Trajan’s column wear both wolf and bear pelts.
Berserkers are also closely associated with the cult of Odin, the god of fury and frenzy (which dovetails nicely with your idea of the head-god granting special glory to those he has doomed to die, Odin also being the lord of hosts to whom captives were often sacrificed). Berserkers are referred to as ‘Odin’s men’. I believe that Odin was the patron god of Berserkers, and that there was some belief that he gifted them their fury. What allows some men to achieve this versus others I think may have something to do with heritable traits, which would explain the berserks' unique status.
By the viking age berserkers appear in several roles, as elite shock troops, pirates, champions, and marauders. They often show up at a farm challenging a man to a duel over his land or wife, an impossible choice since he will most likely lose to the berserker. It is unclear how much later writing is tainted by Christian animosity for this intensely pagan cult. Berserkers were even outlawed in Norway and Iceland, adding credence to the theory that they were distinct from other men.
The best modern portrayal of the Berserker is in the fantastic film “The Northman”, where they are shown performing a ritual dance where they assume their beast forms, and after the raid are completely drained by the effort of their exertion.
This is largely how I think they must have been; exceptional warriors who exalted a totemic animal cult mixed with the cult of Odin and his frenzy, who through ritual were able to intoxicate themselves into an ecstatic fury in which they did not feel pain or fear bodily harm. Certainly the men you want on your side!
I feel that I have been able to access some lesser version of this in the mosh-pit of death metal concerts, when I have for hours hurled myself at other men without fear of injury, entranced by the furious music, only to wake up the next day unable to move.
Why they do not exist today I sometimes ponder. The nature of modern conflict is not very conducive to a berserk state, where stealth and discipline are key. But I know that elite warriors today have to attune their mental state before they go into combat.
Hopefully you and your readers found this interesting and useful. I look forward to the rest of the podcast series.

James,
Thank you for this.
Last week in Costa Mesa, CA, I coached at the American Gym under the eye of Coach Drexler, an MMA pro who fought in Japan some time ago. In another time, he would have been one of these types. If you are in that area, I’d suggest seeking him out for a private. He’s trained champions.
After this discussion with Jeth I began listening to Xenophon repeatedly for the Alexander project, the Odyssey as well. When sacrificing to God in his manifestation of The Deliverer or the Oath Binder, often based on an earlier promise to that God before battle, the sacrifice was of: a boar, a ram and a bull. In Tarlantia, for a pre-battle curse against Alexander, it was three boys, three girls and three black rams. The Athenians promised Artimus [an angel in Christian parlance] a goat for every Persian killed. But “The Father of Gods and Men,” demanded masculine offerings in the same context.
Odysseus, in consultation with a deceased prophet visited in the Land of the Dead, must make the same sacrifice after traveling so far inland with an oar over his shoulder that some man identifies it as a threshing pole. This indicates an inland origin for the warrior nations who became pirates. Of interest is that the afterlife is found “in The Land of the Midnight Sun,” being Nordic or Arctic, where the Kimmerians have their city. The Kimmerians were the first blond Huns of perhaps 900 B.C. to ride horses rather than use chariots.
There continued depredations in Greek Asia inspired Kallinus of Ephesos to poetry for the men of his city:
[of 21 lines, untitled, adapted from Lattimore]
“How long will you live in ease, and when will you find courage, young men...”
“A man as he dies, should cast his spear for the last.
It is a high thing, a bright honor...”
“When it is ordained that a man dies, there is no escape from death, not even for one descended from deathless gods...”
“Great and small mourn the slain hero...”
“He acts as an army, though one man.”
This came true for Promachus of Pellenes in about the 390s B.C. when he broke the Corinthian shield wall, though he lived. But to accomplish such a thing, being resigned to die is a precondition for success. Letting go of life in combat is like slipping a leash, to be unleashed from social and mortal concerns, and set upon those still fettered to their petty desires and safety. This is the subtext of Odysseus and his few loyalists slaughtering hundreds in his wine hall, for which he sacrificed the three masculine animals. The boar tooth helmet of the Iliad and Beowulf echo this, as do the dreams of Charlemagne involving a greyhound defending him against a leopard and a lion. And, do not forget the aegis, the storm shield, stylized as a gray fleece, probably of a ram, rather than a simple goat. The aegis may well have been inspired by cataclysmic events. However, the storm shield is employed by blue-eyed Athena [a Valkerie/angel] who alone among the minor powers of heaven does not need instruction from God but knows his will, therefor being an aspect, a “daughter” power. I suggest bull hide shields, boarhead helmets and fleece cloaks as intermediate artifice adopted by the semi-domesticated but still heroic descendants of the first Arуans, something between the lion skins worn by Herakles, Polydamas and Dioxiphos [all murdered by dastard plots] and the red cloaks of their more civilized descendants.
I am inclined to read Norse source translations for congruent threads with the Hellenic.
For now I must concentrate on the functional artifice in Xenophon’s Anabasis for clues to deeper things.
I cannot shake the feeling [not a thought] that the Agrianes, Alexander’s most loyal troops, though allied, some 60 times, attacked more numerous and often heavy armed enemies, head on, though light troops themselves. Against a tribe that had remained unconquered they were reported to have “yielded nothing.” Their use by Alexander was like that of Messach Browning with his dog, circa 1800. With a single loyal dog, Messach would slay wolves, bears, cougars and panthers with a knife, mounting their backs while his outmatched dog locked jaws with the beast. Semi-barbarian troops of their time typically wore fox caps and wolf skin mantels. These, I think, were not mere ornamentation.
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posted: April 18, 2025   reads: 333   © 2025 James LaFond
‘A Job In Season’
Hesiod’s Works and Days: Lines 396-828
“Work foolish Perses, do the work that the gods have decreed for men…”
So continues the brow beating by song, as if a country music singer scolded and instructed his drunk, womanizing brother at the saloon…
Hesiod is lucky he made it out of Ascra alive. One wonders if reciting this poem to the wastrel sons of a host down in Lokri is what got him killed?
Hesiod admonished Perses to stop begging from his neighbors, who will eventually turn away. This conversation has been overhead by me many times as I have stood among dusky Baltimoreans.
“I suggest you reflect on clearing your debts and avoiding famine. First, a household, a woman and a plowing ox—not a wife, but a slave, one who could follow the flocks. The tools in the house must all be made ready… A man who puts off work wrestles with Blights.”
The latter condition of Blights, is capitalized to emphasize these as manifest heavenly powers, sendings, like the plagues of Egypt in Exodus, divine punishments for sloth.
“Holm-oak” is the best wood for fashioning a plow tree to be fixed with dowels to poles by a carpenter. Bay or elm are the best for worm free poles and oak the stock.
Two nine-year old male oxen are the best, and behind them should be set a slave of 40, who is still young enough to plow but too old to be capering with other young slaves when he should be down to business. Eight ounces of bread are to be his ration, it seems for breakfast.
“And no younger men is better besides him to sprinkle seed and avoid over-sowing,” indicating two mature bondmen are needed for plowing and sowing, with “A slave boy just behind with the mattock should make it hard work for the birds by covering up seed.”
“Command your slaves, ‘It will not always be summer,’ build your huts.’”
Of Lenaion, the depth of winter, Hesiod is at his lyric best, with 53 lines devoted to winter preparations and descriptions of the severity of the climate:
“...the North Wind blows, coming over horse-rearing Thrace, he blows over the sea and stirs it, and earth and woodland roar… The immense forest cries aloud and animals shiver and tuck their tails… he makes an old man bowl along… horned and hornless forest beasts, gnashing run off through the windy glades, all those, in want of shelter, seek deep lairs in caves, no other thought on their mind… as they try to avoid the white snow…”
“At that time oxen should have half, a man the full ration…”
The slaves and wife are beasts of burden with their food dolled out by the same hand. This puts the farmer at the mercy of those local barons who have armed men to round up slaves and discourage uprisings.
Hesiod leads Perses out of winter, through spring and into summer, “The slaves, drive them to thresh Demeter’s holy grain in a well ventilated place… When you have stored all of your crops, engage a man with no household [an overseer] and a woman without child, a bondwoman with child at her side is of less use. And keep a hound with sharp teeth, well fed, lest the lazy man steel your food. Bring in hay and rubbish so that your oxen and mules have enough to last. Then the slaves can unyoke the oxen and rest their poor legs.”
A nice paragraph on summer making the wine and milk sweeter, women more amorous, and men weaker, is a balanced piece of coping for the farmer, that encouraged the hardworking homesteader to stop in the heat of summer and enjoy a few days.
This is followed by brief advice on wine making, extensive advice on shipping and sailing, cautioning Perses that their father, “One day came here, making the long crossing from Aeolian Kyme, in his dark ship, not running from riches, not from wealth and prosperity, but from evil poverty, which Zeus dispenses to men. And he settled near Helicon, in a miserable village called Ascra, bad in winter, foul in summer, good at no time.”
Discouraging sailing, Hesiod realizes his brother would be tempted to be a merchant, gives what knowledge he has, warns against the perils of the sea, and notes, “But men do even that in their folly, because property is like life to wretched mortals.”
As with farming, family is still to be in season.
“In season bring a wife home,” [at about age 30, she on her fifth year into puberty, a virgin from nearby]… “For a man acquires nothing better than a good wife, nothing worse than a bad one, the food-sneaker, who burns a man without a fire, strong though he be and consigns him to premature old age.”
“Beware the punishment of the immortal blessed ones.”
What follows is an extensive work of taboos, witch tales, superstitions and common sense, to include holy days and lucky days. Perses, at this point was certainly yawning, restless with this lesson, looking at some slave girl’s plump butt. So, for his case, let us pass to the end of this pleasing poetic almanac of life lessons for surviving the accursed world of the Age of Iron:
He advising never mocking the poor, keeping a close tongue, and that speaking ill of folks invokes the evil goddess Gossip.
“These are the days best for men’s acts on earth. The others are days of changeable omen, doomless, yet not fortunate. Different men commend different days, but few know that among those chosen days, ‘sometimes a day is a stepmother, sometimes a mother.’”
“Well with god and fate is he who works with this knowledge, giving the immortals no cause for offense, observing the bird signs and avoiding transgressions.”
Hesiod was a wise, hard working, middle class man, who knew the fix was in, but hoped in his own words that heaven would not turn away and would enforce right over wrong on earth. He was not the first or the last good man to be dead wrong, for Hope remained in Pandora’s jar.
Thank you, Ode-singer, for keeping me company this week. I will finish with your brilliantly brutal The Shield of Achilles.
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posted: April 18, 2025   reads: 183   © 2024 James LaFond
Good Modern Sci-Fi Writers
From Curator Rex
John C. Wright: 
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Castalia Library: 
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posted: April 16, 2025   reads: 227   © 2025 James LaFond
‘For Forty Nights and Days’
Hesiod’s Works and Days: Lines 202-396
Having described the doom cloud mankind lives under as he prays for the storm shield to tun its face away, Hesiod continues to sing to his brother, Perses. He is in the town of Ascra, which will be wiped out by the Thespians at a later time, as Hesiod will prophecy, that a town ruled by crooked judgment will suffer the wrath of Zeus, by the news from his daughter, Justice. This does indicate an allegory that right flows down the social latter from might.
“Now I tell a fable for the barons, who will well understand it. So the hawk addressed the dappled nightingale as he carried her high in the clouds, grasping her in his claws; impaled on the curved talons, she was weeping piteously, but he addressed her sternly as master:
“Why ever do you scream? You are in the grasp of a greater power, and you will go where I will, singer that you are. I will eat you for dinner if I like, or let you go. He is a fool that contests a power greater than his own: he both looses the struggle and suffers injury on top of insult.
“So spoke the swift-flying hawk, the long-winged bird.”
“But you, Perses, must seek Right and not promote violence. For violence is bad for a low man; not even the higher man can carry it easily, but he sinks under it as he runs into Blights.”
Hesiod does not just place his brother in a morally compromised position requiring reform, but places himself in the talons of the hawk, he being the “singer” in the avaricious clutches of the barons. His fable predicts his fate, murdered by young noblemen, as well as the fate of Ascra, wiped out by the heroic Thespians, these men perhaps citing Hesiod’s prophecy and fate as justification.
Hesiod reminds the listener that the spirits of the Golden Race watch over man from the earthly mists and report to Zeus, who will judge transgressors harshly.
“Beware of this, barons, and keep your pronouncements straight, you bribe-swallowers, and keep your judgments.”
Whistle blowing has never been safe bet, let alone a viable Iron Age strategy.
A standard axiom is presented:
“A man makes ill for himself who makes ill for another, and the ill design is most ill for the designer.”
Hesiod has presented an indictment and judgment, clothed in holy piety, of the local barons, who themselves might have included priests, and certainly numbered armed horsemen with armed bullies. He further, obviously due to this work’s preservation, sang this song far and wide, to neighboring sanctuary keepers at the Helicon Museum and perhaps in the market place, where he accuses Perses of spending too much of his time. Such a place would be frequented by people from neighboring towns, perhaps Thespia?
Hesiod had come to the attention of the Delphic Oracle, nearby navel of their metaphysical world. Twice he had been subject of a conspiracy, and once again, he would be killed by a third conspiracy, perhaps because he could not stop from “naming the wrong-doer,” who, like the hawk over the songbird, held all of the power between them. It is little wonder that Ovid, in exile from Rome, writing of fishing, and etching into his Metamorpheses numerous fables which seemed to beg for a savior of men on earth, adopted Hesiod’s metaphysical outlook despite their class division.
Despite his own example that hard work makes a man a target for the liar and the baron, Hesiod continues giving advice to his traitor brother:
“Inferiority can be got in droves, easily: the road is smooth and she lives near. But in front of Superiority, the immortal gods set sweat; it is a long and steep path to her, and rough at first.”
Perses, if lazy before, will now be steadfast in sloth, closing his mind before his brother sings of how, once achieved, Superiority supplies ease. In case Perses has been convinced, the following should wake him up to the fact that if he takes his brother’s advice, he will become like his brother, the target of liars and bandits:
“Work is not shameful, not working is shameful; and if you work it will come to pass that a workshy man will envy you.”
A common axiom is related, which does somewhat contradict Hesiod’s advice and would find favor with Achilles, who would certainly appropriate Hesiod’s surplus to feed his Myrmidons:
“Inhibition is no good provider for a needy man,
Inhibition, which does men much harm and much good.
Inhibition attaches to poverty, boldness to wealth.”
Advice on neighborly behavior is extensive and leads to another proverb:
“Be a friend to a friend,
keep company with he who seeks it.
Give to he who gives, and not to he who gives not:
to a giver one gives, to an ungiver none gives.”
Give is good, Snatch bad, a bringer of death.”
Giving is regarded as a masculine act, and taking a feminine act. Snatch is a minor Goddess, a child of Night that is the act of impulsive greed.
Hesiod brings out a passage pointed at whatever woman is gobbling his brother’s ill-gotten gains, by a method calculated to appeal to the wastrel man and bring him into hardy misogyny:
“At the uncorking of a jug, and at the dregs, take your fill, in the middle be sparing: parsimony at the bottom is mean.”
The other case in which men are “mean” is when they change friends often.
“Let the agreed wage for a man of good will be assured; and even with your brother, smile and bring a witness.”
Here, at the very dawn of Classical Civilization, in small town rural Hellas, honor is utterly gone from public life.
“Trust and mistrust alike have ruined men. Do not succumb to the charms of some shapely woman—it is your barn she is after; he who trusts a woman trusts cheaters.”
Hesiod suggests a single son for building family wealth and that having many sons may bring the blessings of Zeus, for “more, hands, more work, and greater surplus.”
This section transitions to homestead management with another proverb, as Works and Days transitions from a homily on right and wrong to something like a farmer’s almanac:
“When the Pleiades born of Atlas rise before the sun,
begin the reaping; the plowing when they set.”
“For forty nights and days they are hidden…”
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posted: April 16, 2025   reads: 180   © 2024 James LaFond
The future's so dark, you won't need sunglasses
Cocktail Napkin 2
I'm certain you've had that moment at work when you've said "This is a complete waste of my time." You've said it 10,000 times. I bet you've pondered the 10,000-mile pilgrimage tomatoes make from nursery soils to destination markets. Think of all the fossil gases persons-we-care-about must inhale! Damn you Big Oil!—you say with intended humor. But you're on to something, big.
The inefficiency of every last thing around us utters a simple truth we can all appreciate: that keeping busy is the primary purpose of our toil, not the other stuff. How or where it all went wrong I am not researched enough to answer, but it looks like we got conquered sometime in the past and turned into segregated Worker-Consumers. I formally grant you, wise reader, the right to decorate your cell with as many inspirational posters and wall-doodles as you'd like. Your sentence has begun.
We're farther in the Future than you think.
A horse with a gasmask, first world war, was apocalyptic looking. But a Prius that's been rapid-oxidized and melted into the ground next to an intact tree, that's next level.
Genetic code written on a computer and transcribed by your own mitochondria, that triggers regular creation of a toxic protein in vivo, that's pretty darn novel huh? Or a living virus that does the same?
Rockets landing in reverse? Low-altitude satellite meshwork being put in place above our heads... almost done!
Phones that listen to your ovulation cycle, decipher your words, even by 'accident'—Go away, Siri!
Governments that cycle their predator and prey populations in-and-out with ease and without detection.
Fun Factoid 1: Someone has already sat down and programmed the value of human lives in terms of floating integers, needed for the math done by AI drones in targeting and killing people.
Did You KnOw? Robots will soon metabolize flesh... Tee-hee!
Convinced yet? What do you think comes next? Have our works of art given us any advance preview ...
We are in the future, but it doesn't feel like it. When you open up a window and feel the thousand-year-old air and thousand-year-old sun, it pulls you back to a simpler time. It's an unfortunate trick that lends to the veil.
"History is written by the Victors."
"Everything comes out in the wash."
These two things I was told in Government class. They are incompatible. Catholic school ain't it.
The first statement is true. The second is what slaves say while being tricked into sucking the ass that feeds them.
If you're here, and this mandatory civilian work arrangement persists, then it was probably intended by the most powerful of historical forces, the architects of our archetype, the Victors. This is important. We are here because we are willed to be here, for those with the power and the pen can have it any way they like, and this world is that way.
Doesn't matter the strings of power, not here. We come after the great prophets and their trials of faith, after the dark ages and ensuing rebirths. We come after the great thinkers, who turned the world upside down, and paid with their lives. We come after the rebels, who shouted their shrill cry for freedom, fought hard and fell fast. We come after the great battles, the great ideas, the fantastical show-offs that puttered into obscurity. Truly, hasn't it all been done and written? How many more tragic heroes do you need [to sit down]?
The world we inherited is the one forged after a million reckonings. Whatever it is, whatever its true purpose, its structure has been perfected to stand the test of time, the tests of Men. It survives, and the people it has consumed are forgotten. The drive of their souls become tiring fables. Their purpose washed-out.
We are left with little to do, little to complain about. We are left with things, and work.
A Pot Made for Melting
I look at my very working-class neighborhood and I see many taking leave of the moral life, patronizing instead the arts of death. I turn on the hypnoscreen and I am told of celebrity sex crimes, suicides, and broken families, where we would never suspect. If both the top and the bottom of the social pyramid are corrupt, then how can we be so sure its middle parts are safe haven?
Can one do a proper accounting of the lethality of our culture en masse? Is there a most-categories death statistic published that lets you risk-assess the tolls of civic participation—stress, toxin, spiritloss? How many people make it comfortably to old age outside captivity? The Amazonian senior in the loin cloth seems rather content, not broken and afraid.
What if everyone's dying? How many of your apparent community would have to pass away before you said "Hey, wait a second. That's a little more than it should be. I need to pay attention to this." How many? Ever thought of the number, or the percent? If 7% of my people disappeared on Year-1, then another 11% on Year-2, then another 12% on Year-3... How long until you can read between the lines? Maybe you'd never notice, especially if endless calamaties cascaded-in during those years, perhaps with overwhelming casualty, perhaps alternated with mind-boggling Newscrap. Or, maybe you never took stock, because it's unusual to do so.
Fasten Your Tinfoil Hat
There is an extra-terrestrial element I think, to those that call themselves our masters.
Beyond their endless schemes that ring unearthly, observe firstly the influential imbibing the message to metamorphize their appearances to that of Freakazoid. You say, but Webmaster, this is the stuff of humanity, that in turns that may be measured academically, men and women committ to fighting their nature, markedly after centuries of civic captivity. To that I say, observe secondly, how at the end of Earth's many rainbows there is always a Leprechaun hard at horde, a person you never thought would exist, actually holding down the polar extreme inferred, or if you prefer - a terminus - one the casuals can't stomach and refuse to.
Jeff Epsteen & Friends were doing exactly what you know they were doing on that island. The Inquisition really sat people down on spikes. At the end of Orwell's 1984, (Spoiler Alert!) the main characters are executed. In other strange words: you don't need to just play with the answer like it's a gift of contention, or wait for permission to accept it. Have it. Have the answer like cake. It's yours. It's right in front of you. Say it.
Aliens, nigga.
If you understand how information is handled, you have a really special tool.
Remember the movie Men in Black? Society already hosts countless galactic neighbors right beneath our nose, and the state has been dealing with them ever since at least the ol' discus-crashing days.
Remember the movie Planet of the Apes? Slaved, by a smarter race, ages before now.
How about Contact? That one had Jodie Foster. Earth is beamed blueprints to build a spaceship capable of joining a high-roller time-share presentation but we're a few millions years too late. Damn.
How about that one with Charlie Sheen where martians are greenhousing the Earth hotter while creating clones of dead people? (The Arrival)
Oh yeah, remember Invasion of the Body Snatchers? ...There's a creepy scene where a person is getting jabbed and says 'Why are you doing this to me?'
I could go on and on with great scifi flicks that infer cosmic-grade conspiracy. You can probably name a few. What if all of this is the same narrative, and we convert all perspectives thereof to imitations that invalidate it? Humans constantly project the apparatus they feel strapped upon them, the one covered in slime, oozed by sons of bitches from a fouler planet than mine.
In global faiths is manifested a very old and respected intuition that the social ladder continues up and off this planet and into the Heavens. The Pharaoh was God on Earth, so was Christ, able to enjoy dual-citizenship of the terrestrial and the Extra. Thanks to them we are able to access the Divine, the only sensible place where the social ladder may continue its rungs, bathed in the astronomical powers necessary to facilitate fathers of greater magnitude. It appears to me that only the semantics are fought over here. I suggest that the Earthly majesty of pain and pleasure colors is reflected Above in-scale. Good actors and bad, Drama, leverage of power and exploitation, as an extension of what we experience on soil, natural and logical.
The 'dust-keeping' skills I figure, are at least as brutal as the ones at our scale. I admit I spray indiscriminately at ants with the biggest baddest bottle of bug spray I can find. But ants I'm-a-killin!
Choose your Highers as you will, but no matter where you park your flying car, keep in mind someone made you, someone saved you from the others, and someone gave you a working visa.
     
04.15.25   james lafond — Ingo Swan, search the review I did of his book here.

It is about this subject form 20 years ago and very chilling.
04.16.25   Sam J. — This is tangential but from James earlier writing this might interest him. A archeologist from Georgia writes some interesting stuff. This link is about,

"...History of the State of Georgia (1843) by Dr. William Bacon Stevens was far more accurate ethnologically than modern texts.

Stevens book opens up by stating that early settlers on the South Carolina and Georgia coast encountered light skinned Indians, who spoke a dialect of Gaelic, which Irish immigrants could understand. ..."

apalacheresearch.com/2020/03/09/a-co nstellation-of-peoples-once-lived-on-the-south-atlantic-coast

This one is interesting as it relates to aliens...slightly...and recounts naked dancing coneheads on drugs (how's that for an enticing summary and it's supposed to be true)

"I once shared a tent with a female conehead"

apalacheresearch.com/2020/10/20/i-once-shared-a-tent-with- a-female-conehead
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posted: April 15, 2025   reads: 400   © 2025 Sam J.
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