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Colonel’s Orders?
The Cumberland Saloon, Washington State, 1/22/22
Loggers, bar flies, retired military and civilian aircraft mechanics, road workers and carpenters frequent this spacious dive bar, which is also, I think, called “City Hall.” The saloon is one of four buildings at town center that are not residential, one being a post office and the other a small grocery. Pickup trucks are the mainstay in the parking lot.
After a day of ditching The Colonel directed me to have a good time. I had not eaten since a light breakfast. The Colonel always wants to pay, so after he bought the first round and started a tab, I began to sneak up to the bar and buy my own drinks. The small, curvaceous, moon-faced brunette barmaid with the lip piercing and the ivy tattoos on her neck, in her torn tight jeans, and formfitting sweater seemed to have been sent by Robert E. Howard out of a weird tales story by way of a Seattle tattoo artist.
Santa Clause was an easy mark and I was soon returning to the bar for another eye full, which depleted like 7 of my $5 bills into the tip jar, as I drank doubles of over-proofed rum and cup pints of Mac and Jacks beer.
“What the hell is that, Sunshine, a glass of wine?”
“No Sir, Kraken Rum.”
“So long as nobody dies its a good time—live her up!”
There was a band, a base player, drummer, guitarist and singer that played 1970s music that was much to our boomer liking—hell, I hadn’t heard a Ted Nugent song since the early 1980s.
The lead guitarist had just married the lady in front of us, who introduced us to the band, we being the only people seated near the stage, the others all 30 feet off at the bar.
I began making a useful study of the musician by type, wondering how I’d train them to fight:
-The base player would be easy to teach shift-stepping to with a stick.
-The singer had a big head and short arms and the best sense of rhythm, peek-a-boo boxing.
-The lead guitarist was stiff and focused, straight punches and blades.
-The drummer, double stick and volume-pressure boxing.
They were all about 50, except for a real cute read head who I thought was with the base player. Getting drunk, I was like a one-eyed dog in a meat market—like, hell, I was.
The wife of the guitar player said, “Oh, she is not with anybody. She is available.”
Long hair.
Cute.
Big on top.
Little in the middle.
Big on the bottom.
The guys her age are suddenly poster children for Ageless Male Enhancement treatment…
The entire caveman checklist was marked off in the affirmative and I took the suggestion and bought the lady a beer.
Six shoots and five beers in, things were getting a bit fuzzy. I remember watching The Colonel dancing with the guitarist’s wife like a wild man in his boots and them both hitting the wooden deck. He recovered from the floor like a young buck, literally throwing the woman up onto her feet as he leaped off his back and continued the dance.
I don’t dance. Well, I did dance once, in Cody Wyoming, in a camper, with this big crazy Viking-Indian, also known as The Colonel, after drinking a bottle of whiskey with him. He was insisting on teaching me a couple steps in case we met any ladies at a bar.
So, not recalling how I ended up on the dance floor, I will blame it on The Colonel, assuming that he said something like, “Sunshine, that’s a mighty fine Philly there not to be dancing with.”
Well, I found myself on the dance floor, for two full songs. I gather that this was under the pretense of me dancing. However, all I remember was holding her hand over her head so that she would spin around and I could stop staring at her breasts and stare at her stumpendous buttocks. On occasion I would remember Sweet City’s voice echoing in my mind, “I have a face you know,” and I’d look upward and down into her eyes and she’d smile kind of bashfully and turn around, looking over her shoulder with a half smile as the caveman matrix lit up, “Look at dat azz…”
No, I do not recall her name, but I could pick her figure out of a lineup.
I recall The Colonel telling me, “Alright Sunshine, it’s your stop.”
I am told that it took fifteen minutes for me to get in the door, something like 2 feet per minute.
I remember standing next to The Captain in the kitchen as he gave me a B-vitamin and held up a liter of Kirkland whiskey and said, “Nige, you up to lead the Nigerian Cribbage Team to Victory?”
Then the concerned snow white face of The Captain’s Wife looked up into my eyes with worry as I made inarticulate sounds, seeming to wonder if I was alive, or rather, ‘How could he still be alive?’
I felt The Captain’s hand on my back and woke ten hours later as the door was opened and his wife said, “Just checking to make sure you’re okay—do you need a Tylenol?”
I was fine, no hangover. I then noticed that the heater was pointed at me and that I had been debooted and undressed by someone who folded clothes and had to yank my boots off and had pointed the heater at the bed rather than at the clothes drying rack as I did.
What an angel.
The Captain said the next day at dinner, “Nige, my wife asked me for help getting your ass into the pump room and I said, “No! Let that Nigerian sleep in the yard!”
Well, that cleared the Brovid Jiveteen plague fog from my head. That foggy mind after a cold or flu persisting for weeks is something I have never experienced that some of the afflicted around me have also dealt with. It is also something that seems to have afflicted some I know who got jabbed.
Well, in a world of change it is nice to have friends, especially when you’re strange.
Thank you Jenna Bug, also known as Mamma Bear, for not letting me sleep it off in the yard.
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posted: May 27, 2022   reads: 36   © 2022 James LaFond
Tribal Society
A Discussion with Mister Grey
Watch "Indian Talk part 1 with James Lafond" on YouTube
Mister Grey
Thu, May 26, 4:41 PM (17 hours ago)
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posted: May 27, 2022   reads: 94   © 2022 James LaFond
Drugs and Crime
Impressions Gleaned from Country and City Living: 1/24/22
“Why would someone legalize drugs? Our experience living here [Cascadia] is that burglaries and robberies are committed for money to get drugs.”
-The Captain’s Darling Wife over coffee as canine wizard Tobias snores on the floor, having been kicked out of the dog bed by the black cat…talk about black-on-black crime
Our conversation had begun on homeschooling and school taxes and centered on the fact that some years in the past 20, Baltimore City has had among the top ten municipal expenditures per student in all of the U.S.A., with only 15% of kids literate, and only 11% of children able to do math. I recalled to her when Kurt L. Schmoke, a highly intelligent mayor, was not reelected due to his stance on legalizing drugs. He was, however, the only mayor in my life time to investigate school corruption: 150 administrators in that building on North Avenue making 100K plus a year, with pallets of text-books still sitting in the stockroom decades after they were ordered…
I explained to her, roughly:
“I have noticed out West and in rural areas of the East, that drug related crime seems to be committed by people seeking money for drugs. I also noted, in viewing the recent Netflix series I Am A Killer, with the Colonel, that most of these mostly rural murderers were dope fiends. In the West there is a very dangerous homeless population. Not so in the East, where the homeless are older and less able and huddled in herds trying to avoid torture and murder by Bantu Yute tribesmen.
“In the West you have young, fit, feral, yeti homeless with IQs that are higher than the drug lords of the Bantu East. This makes them more industrious in committing property crimes. It is also well known that Yeti’s when bent on violence are—though less prone to torture and rape than Bantus—are more thorough and focused killers. This is why law enforcement since 1965 in the U.S. has focused more energy per criminal on Yeti than Bantu crooks—because Yetis’ pose a more consistent danger to police. Indeed, the mark of 70 IQ being regarded as the limit for mental competence in many court systems is ironically the average Baltimore Bantu IQ and higher than the average Somali IQ. Thus The System prejudice against Yetikin and preference for Bantukin criminals is reasonable, just as I prefer my fighters to be matched against an idiot rather than a wizardly ring general.
“Back East and increasingly in the urban West, there is an avalanche of Bantu-on-Bantu murder over the right to sell drugs to the decadent sons and daughters of the suburban Yeti middle class and upper class. During these murders, children are often killed, due largely to the low IQ character of the killers and limited skill and empathy. As a Bantu mayor, Kurt was accurately concerned with the killing of so many children of his race, essentially in service to the drug use of another race.
“I would also note that the most casualties are overdose deaths of Yetis. In this light, the ghetto mixing of deadly agents with heroin and cocaine by 70 IQ criminals using a credit card may also be regarded as mass murder of Yetis—assisted suicide or manslaughter at least.
“I see an American future were both of these drug paradigms will come together, with savage Yeti tweakers and Bantu gangbangers coexisting in a feral tribal twilight. These are the worlds of Longshank Cain and Ditcher I am currently working on.”
Note
The lady was having trouble having her face recognized by her smartphone with her glasses on. This gave me the idea of a boxer of the future failing to be recognized by facial recognition after losing a fight, all of a sudden cast off the grid unable to engage in society or the economy, unable to even order a soda at the Mickee Dees Kiosk.
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posted: May 26, 2022   reads: 187   © 2022 James LaFond
‘You Have a Peculiar Habit’
The Colonel Plumbs the Psychosis of an Ivory Hoodrat: 1/22/22
The Colonel and I were rolling out of his driveway in the big pickup truck, headed for The Cumberland Saloon, when he said, “You have a peculiar habit that never fails. You always wait until the driver is behind the wheel before you get in. Where, pray tell, does that come from?”
I have written about this in the past in the Harm City series. With carjackings now perhaps the most common violent crime in America, it deserves a review.
In 1993 Bill was driving away from East Point Metro with me in the passenger seat down Rolling Mill Road after work on a Sunday morning about 7 AM. Two Baltimore County Pigs and two more officers rolling up as backup, decided that Bill—a 50-year-old married stock clerk—was a likely crook. We were held there seated and feeling very vulnerable as one of the cops—a big Bantu—had his gun out and pointed down and another had his hand on his gun.
I felt very vulnerable, sitting in an easily perforated aluminum box. A year or two later as I began working out numerous long range bus commutes to three work sites, I read in the Washington Times accounts of five D.C. cops who had been murdered while sitting in their squad cars.
Then, as I crossed Light Street one night a rich bitch in a car started cussing at me for jaywalking, and it occurred to be, that as she was stopped, I could easily drag her from her rolling throne.
Additionally, the neighborhood I lived in with my wife and sons was becoming very dangerous. Before I lost her car due to bankrupcy, I took a weekly drive with her and my youngest son to supermarkets that had very dangerous parking lots.
Those are the influences I can recall in forming my person survival doctrine that I will never enter a car as a passenger until the driver is seated. With the driver, it is a vehicle. Without him it is a death trap. I envision myself as the passenger as having the obligation to provide security for the driver, who is busy operating a dangerous machine, which is also the second most valuable category of personal property and the prime U.S. crime target.
My thoughts on doctrine is that it must be supported with useless vigilance in the most benign situations. It must be a rote habit to be reliable under stress. It must also be supported by visualizations. I constantly run car entry and egress attack scenarios in my mind.
I have noted that more recent cars are hard to exit once the auto-locks are engaged and then it is too late for me to use the door as a weapon or get over the hood to engage some one approaching the driver, who is often female in my life. I play with these locks and determine if they can be bypassed in any way that does not depend on the driver, as my pedestrian mind set makes me better suited to divining bad pedestrian intentions. I also have the luxury of looking around while the driver must drive and is focused on other vehicles.
I sent 38 years as a pedestrian and sometimes a car passenger in Baltimore City, a place where sitting down is often an invitation to an attacker. People in Baltimore stand against walls and eat fast food rather than sit on a bench, more often than not, because that city is our nation’s flagship clinical trial for low trust living under anrcho-tyranny.
I will hopefully never have to empty this discipline—but that is the nature of preparedness, and, an expression of my own extensive urban PTSD.
The Colonel related his most harrowing driving tale. He was driving in a white out, on a snowy road near Logan Utah and could only see the snow banks but vaguely. He knew he had to make a right turn but could not see the intersection of the four-way stop, with everything buried in snow. He did know that the crossroad was 4 miles from his job and had a habit of reading his odometer. So, at four miles, he stopped, got out of the truck, and was able to find the crossroad on foot and make the turn. That situation was more dangerous than a lot of carjackings, and one wonders how many GPS-based drivers would do if the GPS went down in such a situation.
Thank you, Colonel, for dropping me off drunk at The Captain’s door rather then letting me stumble home through the misty woods.
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posted: May 25, 2022   reads: 275   © 2022 James LaFond
‘I Burn Fossil Fuel!’
One Man’s War on Hipster Highway: Seattle Area, 1/10/22
Nige The Nigerian, Captain of the Nigerian Cribbage Team, also known as “The Hoodrat” and “LaFond” in these parts helped The Captain haul five yards of gravel from the pit to The Compound. It was The Captain’s last day before returning to work after the government plague swept through this community. He seems to have been itching to practice his hour commute from this tiny town to “The Colon” of downtown Seattle. We had just unhooked the trailer after dumping the 1 ¼ inch gravel.
“Nige,” he says, “have any pressing plans for today?”
“I’ll write whenever we’re done running errands.”
“Then you’re moral support.”
“Big Red,” a Ford F-250 Diesel, was left idling in the drive way among the various pickup trucks cars and SUV’s he and his sons have wrecked, as well as the three that still run.
We would do the entire circuit between the Cedar River, to Seattle, across the Green River, back past Mount Rainier, and across the Green River headwaters to the Cedar River. Over 4 hours we got gas, 50 pounds of potatoes, street tacos and a Modelo, jalapenos, stopped so that he and his dog, Tobias, could piss in public, hit the Muckleshoot Rez for tobacco and booze, but most importantly, “abused the faggots.”
Traffic around Seattle is like Jersey or Frisco, if it was raining, just stupid.
Below are snippets of The Captain’s monologue as he practiced driving back and forth to work, with Nige alternately white knuckling it and cackling like the nefarious dog of Snidely Whiplash. All the while Toby, patiently sitting behind his master and looking out the window like Anubis, in hopes of seeing a Burger King drive thru.
Overture
“Blub-blub-blub-blub-glug-rrrrrrggg!” sounded the big red machine as it roared out into four lanes of traffic, ripping around 18-wheelers and cutting off anything that was not a pickup truck. Pickup trucks were given courtesy and truckers a wide berth. Fire Trucks were simply used to bully faggots and blast through red light intersections in their wake as The Captain snarled at mazed motorists in their tiny vehicles:
“Fuck you, Madam Prias, may tweakers descend upon your cadalitic converter in the night!”
“You reprobated Asian—back, you can’t drive—Big Red is coming through!”
An SUV tried to nose his way ahead from the right lane and The Captain hit the gas and with a great roar Big Read drove the intruder back into his lane, “Fuck you faggot! Make way and stay in your appointed lane!”
A female motorist in a Bentley signals that she wants to cut into the lane from the left and The Captain speeds up, “How do you spell cunt in Seattle—chivalry is dead!”
There is a deadly accident on I-BIG and The Captain decides to take an off ramp that is backed up 20 cars deep, but the right lane is empty, probably because it is a right turn only yield. The Captain declares, “An open lane—take it, Big Red,” and roars gurgling diesel past the first 19 cars then sees that it is a right turn only and cuts in front of a black motorist and smiles, “My bad—back to the plantation with you Nige!” and guns it across the intersection, beating the red light, almost running head on into a minivan whose driver scowls and The Captain growls, “Out, of, my, way! I have been in ten car accidents in the past ten years. I love the sound of shattering glass, twisting metal and crunching plastic—you are plastic and I am steel—fuck you!”
[Nige, the Nigerian LaFond is trying not to break a rib laughing as he snickers in the seat.]
“Having fun, Nige! I thought you’d like this, being a pedestrian and all and spending your hoodrat life at the very base of the automotive food chain—this is what it is like to rule the road, Bro!”
Back on a thinner highway, headed towards mist-shrouded Rainier, a well dressed young man in a futuristic car with hatch side doors, begins to cut in front of Big Red, there being some four car lengths. But this gap, behind the 18-wheeler is just a ruse to trap the faggot and Big Red roars into action as The Captain yells down at the bemused motorist, “Tesla who? Big Red is commin through—I burn fossil fuel!”
“Blub-blub-blub-blug-glug,” Big Red chugs as The Captain looks for another offensive move and sees a masked Asian man in white shirt and tie hoping to dart into the gap ahead and Big Red roars into action, swerving slightly towards the motorist as his eyes expand and Big Red’s commander belts out, “Not today, slant-eyed negro! Toby, if we hit this faggot I want you to get out and bite him—put the enamel on his ass!”
“At an interstate interchange loop, fire department pumpers, EMTs and hook and a ladder truck cause hundreds of cars and SUVs to stop at the green light and some even to pull over. Not The Captain, as the pumper passes, he roars into formation with Big Red, seemingly part of the first responder caravan, yelling down at the scandalized motorists who have stopped, “I’m a first responder! Toby has to piss—do you have a well manicured lawn where he can take a dump! We deliver, don’t we Tobias!”
“Toby, I know you’re pissed that we haven’t stopped so you can smash some poodle. But Daddy promises you melted cheese and Granny’s left overs. Eat the cat’s food after Mamma Bear goes to bed—screw those puddy cats—let them eat rats!”
He then turns to Nige, ‘Bro, some Nig—not a member of the storied Nigerian Cribbage Team—cut in front of me right here at this light while I was in the little commute vehicle and I smashed in his rear end—crunch! This homo gets out of his car, maybe late twenties, thinks he’s going to put it on this old dude and runs up to my window and says, “I have a nice car, that’s a good car. You just rear ended me with your piece of junk!”
[Makes middle finger and smirks.] “Fuck you Nige. You pull in front of me again I’ll ram you again. Call the fucking cops—go ahead!”
“The faggot went prancing back into his once nice new car and sped off.” Draws in breath in tantric expectation and pats the dashboard, “Oh Big Red, if only some homo chocolate drop pulled in front of us, it would be a glorious moment and the sound of shattering glass would fill the air!”
“Bro, if the grid went down, this thing would still run while all of these little plastic pieces of junk stalled and we rammed them off the road!”
“Blub-blub-blub-blub-glug-rrrrrgg!”
Finally, back at The Compound, The Captain said, “Nige, sorry if I ruined your writing day. But I needed to tune up for the drive to work tomorrow down into The Colon with these homeless animals shitting on the sidewalk in broad daylight—awe, Tobbes, I’m sorry, we didn’t stop for Burger King. I’ll make it up to you Dark Wing Dog. Leave that stuff in the back, Bro. I’ll get it. I took enough of your day.”
Yes, I understand now something of being an apex motorist.
05.24.22   NC — "Fuck you, Madam Prias, may tweakers descend upon your cadalitic converter in the night!”

Fantastic!

As a fellow aggressive drive I love this guy. Except I drive a sub compact that weaves in and out. GO ahead and hit me. Better kill me or the C&C will take you.
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posted: May 24, 2022   reads: 330   © 2022 NC
Plague Journal 1
December 19, 2021 thru January 6, 2022
“Damn dude. You stomp through the shit hole of Baltimore, drink filthy beer in SE Portland, ride around the country on rolling germ boxes, and then end up catching the plague while doing your impression of clean country living. You really are a hoodrat. Glad you’re feeling better.”
-Yeti Waters
In January 2020, I was here, near the largest medical center in the Pacific Northwest, when the Dread Minus spread out from here as the epicenter. I was very sick, from what I don’t know, coughing up blood. I did have a history of severe bronchitus left over from working freezers overnight and breathing in sub zero forced air, and then working mold-filled mid-temp dairy cases on the next shift. I have bad lungs and never even get upper respiratory symptoms, but anything I catch goes right to my chest.
Over the next two years as the media plague raged and people who died of gunshots and medical neglect were listed as Brovid Deaths, I have not known a single person who died of The Dread Minus. I only knew five people who even had it, or knew that they had
On December 19 The Captain picked me up at the train station and said, “Bro, my son comes back from the military fully νаϲсіոated and sick as shit. The whole house has this shit. Sorry, but I gotta let you know. I think they shot him up with this shit and sent him home to infect us.”
I shook hands with the young man, who turned and coughed and covered his mouth and then washed his hands, and we played cards for hours. The morning after next I was coughing up yellow goo and getting hit by a fever. I spent the week from Christmas Eve to New Year’s Eve in bed with fever and alternately shoveling snow, ditching and walking dogs in the mountains. The activity seemed to help jar the chest gunk up. Shoveling roofs, The Captain flew off and landed on his back…a high-impact decongestant.
Everybody in this extended gathering got this shit, with four people testing positive. I then found out that two of my friends back east are deathly ill with it. As a medical tech who does Brovid testing told me, “This thing likes men, particularly middle aged men, and it really likes fat dudes.”
Perhaps it is just ironic that 2019-21 saw the surge in NGO-Medical-Government push for male-to-female gender reassignment, right as the disease that prefers men so much more than women hit the ground running.
So, as predicted, the Homocron Variant has brought massive sickness, which is now being down played by the media, blamed on the unvaxxed, who are said to be the people most sickened by it, when they are not. My reports over the past year from nurses and medical techs have been that the most common Dread Minus patient is νаϲсіոated, sometimes even survivors who got νаϲсіոated afterwards and got sick again.
My suspicion is that medical people who resisted vaxxing have been mega dosed with the minus to make examples of them and also:
-that testing is used to spread the minus,
-that νаϲсіոation is used to spread the minus,
-that the timing of January 7th supreme snort hearings on this are a sham that will set the stage for
-some big April scam.
People I know afflicted are 20 times more numerous and twice as sick as those I knew through 2020 and 21.
Of the ten people I shared this local version of the plague with I have the following information for the reader to sort.
-The two people who spread this, one from the hospital where he worked and one from the military base, were νаϲсіոated.
-These two spreaders were the most symptomatic and also physically the most robust and were able to continue normal activity despite severe symptoms. These were both strong alpha males, special operator military veterans, with the younger man recently placing in a 50-mile race.
-I am only alive because I had antibiotics. If I had been as hard hit as these men, even that would not have saved me. They blew through it.
-A super fit 16-year-old νаϲсіոated male was the next sickest, meaning symptomatic, virally overloaded, contagious and with a wracking depth of cough.
-The next sickest was a νаϲсіոated elderly woman.
-The next sickest was a middle aged man with a spleen missing from a work accident.
-The next sickest was me, a middle aged man with bad lungs.
-The next sickest was a healthy young νаϲсіոated man.
Those are the seven sickest people, with the only strong youthful males suffering badly having been vaxxed, the only female suffering badly having been vaxxed and the two unvaxxed suffering badly having compromised immune or breathing systems.
Now for the less sick, the 4 people that cared for us and went about their business normally with little or no symptoms. All of these people were not νаϲсіոated—all of them.
-A middle aged woman who caught it late and mild despite sleeping with the most symptomatic cave man.
-An 18-year-old stud, a beef cake who coughed and said, “Y’all are weak.”
-A middle aged woman who took care of all of the sickest of us and was mega-dosed and merely sneezed a few times.
-A young beauty in her 20s mated to the sixth sickest male who had mild cold symptoms for two days.
I think the fact that the two most beautiful woman were the least sick, places the blame squarely at the feet of asthetic-eyed Apollo, god of plague and art—the foremost masculine deity of Civilization whose amber-eyed sisters weep for fallen men.
To break out the numbers from this small rural clinic we have:
-subjects, 11
-debilitated, 1 elderly
-sick but active, 6
-not sick, 4
-of 7 sickened
-compromised = 2
-vaccinated = 4
-vaccinated & compromised = 1, the sickest, grandma
No young unvaxxed people were sickened.
This is the same west coast epicenter as 2020.
Of those people sickened and treated medically, only grandma received any course of treatment. The others were told to get νаϲсіոated or boosted.
I would guess that this version of the Dread Minus was released by a government, NGO or Corporation, in order to further terrorize the herd and increase profits, as Americans are immune to reality and fact and worship the Holy Lie of Civic Life.
I expect nothing less than annual bio-weapon attacks by Leviathan as the System tries to purge most of its subjects so that The Elites will have Ice Age Earth and its reduced carrying capacity to themselves, to pipe like Apollo upon their golden lyre’s across the green hills of earth fertilized by our billions of buried bodies. Before they finally kill me with their diseases, I seek only to shot more truth arrows into the Lying Eye of The God of Things.
God Damned the World of Man.
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posted: May 23, 2022   reads: 347   © 2022 James LaFond
Hadith Road
American Dreamboat #7
Every block some skulker in robes, or fez or both—and one slick looking rich waxer in a suit—would come out looking for him with obvious adult hesitation and then try and talk him into stopping, to which he gave a hearty, “Fuck you, perve!” always bolting into a zigzagging sprint when they were near, stalling oncoming traffic or traffic on his side.
Crossing Freddie Grey Avenue, two cab drivers tried to block his path and he ran right over the hood of the near car and over the roof of the other, down the trunk and sprinted up the way into the Hopkins Campus.
He was now deep in migration territory with private cops everywhere so he ran off into the parklands on the side and made his way north, ever north, on Hadith Road, which went to what Rico called Vizieristan, where all the rich creepers had their mansions where they fucked whiteboys and black boys, but according to Rico, didn’t mess with Latino boys for fear of reprisals.
He hit the side streets on the east side and pounded up the center line there. At 33rd Street some old woman tried to heave a pot from a third story window with the scream of “Infidel” and it crashed near enough to make him think she meant him harm.
At the Alameda a cabbie in a turban cut him off and got out, demanding he get in, and Dillon ran close enough to spit in his face and the old graybeard gave chase. As Dillon was running him around, two black kids hopped in the cab and drove off with it, hooting and hollering like old time cowboys.
Finally, his mouth parched, Dillon hit Joppa Road and ran east, towards what had once been his home, what would now be his mother’s whore pen, only in hopes of finding out what happened to Rico, his only friend, the only person who had never given him shit for being born white in a colored world.
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posted: May 22, 2022   reads: 179   © 2022 James LaFond
Cabin
Scene 7 of The Acts of Awes West
The ghost within the dream soared above the Medicine Wheel Way, gliding down from the snow-covered stone Wheel to see the stone tower smoking from its top and skirted with firewood, choked in snow about its base…
The snow melted away to bring a summer day. That tower melted away stone by stone, beam by beam. As each part was removed by a dreaming hand, the rock was scattered and the beams were notched and stacked to form a cabin, the cabin of Medicine Wheel Man, which had stood since 1961, until the floating dream witness had come, in the space between the tepee style wood shed and the tower…
Noose took the palfrey’s lead rope from the Rose Knight, holding the mare steady while Husband took wife from side saddle to cradle in his arms, looking down into her eyes with an empty question floating there.
A keen knife edge pricked his back, the toothpick of Sergeant Sacks reminding him to look away. Noose saw there, up on the ridge line to The Medicine Wheel, a tall, lean, cotton-robed, white-bearded man, blind of eye, tapping his way along the rocky path with a long willow switch and using an aspen branch as a walking stick.
Trumpeted his mind: ‘Sorcerer! The wise man, man of medicine for souls with a question.’
Sacks said nothing about him staring at the blind wise man, even though, it was obvious, that the blind man saw Noose somehow, looking down directly at him with empty eyes, looking away from the embracing Knight and Lady, as they all did, out of respect.
The wise man walked near, direct, his manner queer, and stopped, looking deeply down into Noose’s face, as if he knew how tall he was.
He held those empty eyes as Medicine Crow glared at him and Indian Ben and the old crow nearly fell into a scrap over Noose’s rudeness. He only knew this because he heard Indian Ben hiss, “A Dead risen-crazy-man lives in the boy body.”
Somehow those great white disks of burned and scarred eye, left both open and shut by the cruel Inquisitors of New Spain, looked down unseeing and with deep knowing, into the wide and normally narrow eyes of Noose, who gaffed, “Pardon ma manners, Padre.”
The man grinned openly and raised his empty hand even as Medicine Crow tightened so that his moccasins creaked. Noose understood the Indian’s angst, well-versed over the last quarter of his life in holding the care of and respect for his Master above all things among men.
Medicine Wheel Man, spoke in a sooth of tone such as “voice” would be a belittlement, “I here the breath of a Lady, the hooves of her palfrey and would ask Her Knight to accompany us to the Observatory. This old book rummager requires a second pair of eyes to sight along the axis of The Wheel and describe the sights cast from heaven by The Almighty.”
The Rose Knight knelt as his lady bowed, both now the same height, without a word.
The Medicine Wheel Man smiled with deep tolling tone, “Dear Joe, please see to the rangers, mend that tribal fence with your foeish kinsman...and dote on this becoming man.”
That final phrase was said with a big open hand motioning to Noose and the empty eyes looked into Infinity as the Lord and Lady of the pony boy looked on amazed and the baritone voice crooned, “Before the very Mirror of God’s Eye it is destined that this one will become a man on the morrow. Joe, bestow the dream catcher created these last three nights.”
With those stunning words, the man turned his back in his rough-cut sandals and began teetering up the rocky path with seeing-by-feeling-stick in one hand and white aspen staff in the other, His Lord Knight of Roses and His lady, walking behind, hand-in-hand.
The attitude of Joe Medicine Crow changed like storm into still. He looked over his shoulder to Indian Ben—half a white man—and said, “Sacred Ravens favor Medicine Wheel Man—you?”
Indian Ben shrugged after the departing trio, “That man took my Lippan mother from a brothel to a nunnery—become my Father.”
Mused he: ‘Ben is old enough to be my father! Hence the Knight is thrice as old as his bride, older than Sacks, as old as Medicine Crow! How is it that I cast him so young in my mind? Am I crazy like Ben says?’
The picture of The Knight’s face held in his heart seemed to age, with gray hair speckling the beard that was never allowed to grow, quite unlike the bearded rangers.
Ben was now pointing at the red scar about Noose’s throat from the rope burns, “Survived the rope death—crazy for scalps,” then pointing to the two Comanche scalps threaded to the left of his yellow and black checkered sash.
Joe responded, “Yes, Father has God’s eyes. He sees the disturbance in this one. The Spanish took his eyes for the book he wrote. So God gave him the heaven sight.”
Joe then got down to necessities: “Wood plenty in the crib for your fire,” he motioned from the grand stand of cut and split timber to a ring of four squared spruce logs to serve as benches and saddle rests, a ring of fire stones in their midst.
He continued, looking mildly down at Noose, “The cabin has a hearth where you can set the great pot. Above Father’s bed hangs a dream catcher. He fashioned it three days now. I will not touch it. You take, Kill-boy.”
Sacks clicked at him, which meant “I’d whoop your ass if outsiders weren’t looking on, so git!”
Ben helped Noose take the great iron kettle with its one steel rod handle, down off of Apple and unwrap it. Noose picked up the pot in one hand, hiding the strain of the effort, it weighing 30 pounds to his 90, and walked slowly into the cabin, through the buffalo hide door curtain and into the candle-lit interior. He set the pot on the hearth stones before the smoldering coals to the left.
To the right he looked to see a modest cot what sufficed for that storied old soul and saw there, a round disk of twisted yellow and black cord, hanging from a rosary chain of wooden beads. The hoop was a mere palm in width and within it was woven white, red, yellow and blue cords, four in number, knotted each five times and all passing through the brass hoop at the back of a Naval pee coat button that served as the central disc. That button had a house of whirling logs sign carved in it. [0]
Ben was in the doorway behind him and whispered, as Noose looked at the dangling symbol in reverent suspicion, “Wear it under your shirt, against your skin, between your breasts.”
Noose did not turn.
The sound of Ben returning outside of the small 12 by 12 foot cabin, where it could be seen that Joe slept on bison hides between the hearth and the bed, scraped off into silence and thence faded into the muffled speech of men outside.
Noose walked around Joe’s hides, reached out his left hand, and caught the dream catcher up by the beads, lifting it from its scrub oak branch hanger.
He lifted the rosary beads over his head and hung the hoop down under his threadbare cotton shirt, beneath his ragged jacket...and a tear rolled down each cheek.
Snarling in anger at himself for being a boy still, he dabbed away the woman rain from his traitor eyes and steeled himself, opening his eyes wide and willing them to dry as he stared into the flickering shadows cast by the coals and the candles upon that dream-riding bed.
Eyes dry, he returned outside and went to work with the horses, not meeting the gaze of any man and ignoring the taunt of Mike, “Aye, Rattle o’ Gun, shoot me a sage chicken fer super, good boy.”
As he set Apple out to graze in the open and reached back for the palfrey, he thought, “Such a great man should have a tower, like Duke Yorebarrow at Springfield Station...not a dang trapper’s cabin.”
Grog muttered, “The gallows brat is gettin’ the ranger look—ought ta breed ‘im wit an Apache squaw en git us a dawn monkey.” [1]
He sneered, knowing these men, despite their experience, to be at their upper limits, “The God-eyed man didn’t even see y’all—like ya weren’t there…”
Mused he: ‘Did he see me all, dead calm and red squall?’
Noose shivered with fear, afraid now of the cabin interior, afraid that he would fail some worldly test and be dragged from womb to gallows in the life that came next.
Dreams are not easily caught…
Many a man lacks such a net.
A wretched, venomous sneeze brought him awake as the yellow slime hurled out of his maw to cling between his moccasin clad feet. The taste was of death, slow rotten death.
The fire was down to coals.
The fire-keeping check list, since he was a pony boy rattled in his head: ‘A heavy log—knotty lodge pole. Piss pine kindling—split aspen stacked around, like burning a witch pushed face first in on the ladder of sin…’
Someone stacked that wood and covered him with the dry shirt from the hood. The room began to spin…
Notes
-0. In some bizarre alternate universe this symbol of eternal rejuvenation might be called a swastika.
-1. A dawn monkey is a junior scout, usually a pony boy hoping to earn a ranger jacket and war hat, who volunteers to infiltrate an enemy camp just before dawn to back-stab and back-shoot defenders at the instant after a ranger attack.
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posted: May 21, 2022   reads: 206   © 2022 James LaFond
Annie
A Profile in Evil: 2/13/22
With a Postscript on the Plight of Tobias.
Annie is a black cat with white face and breast markings. She is the adopted sister of Toby and cuddles with, grooms, head rubs and arches against the canine reprobate.
Toby has a large bed, that contains his 70 pound frame easily. Annie permits Toby to lie there until it is nice and warm. Then she pricks his nose with one evil claw and sends him off into the hard, cold corner, while she reclines in feline majesty, all 10 pounds of her.
Annie has green eyes that glower sphinx like in the dark.
Annie walks stiff legged like an elk, from the hips, affecting an odd strut.
Annie hunts and kills, humming birds, sparrows, shrews, mice, rats and moles. When she hears a mole under ground, she will direct Toby to dig out the hole so she can snag it with a precision guided claw.
Annie does not stray from within sight of the ape den, whose giant, idiot occupants serve her food, water and provide cover from hawks, owls, coyotes and Izzy and Amos, who occasionally stage an insurrection and chase her under the housing frame.
Humans occasionally use ladders, which Annie finds entertaining. She has slept on a ladder, suggesting to the human engaged in installing the ceiling light, that they find other occupation for their rampant OCD.
Annie practices hunting Bisquick, her larger brown grandmother, sneaking up on her and rolling he rover into a rear-naked belly rake neck bite, boss bitch submission.
Annie climbs the 4 by 4 porch supports to the roof to hunt humming birds, which the mother ape lures for Annie’s killing pleasure with a nectar feeder.
Annie has is entertained and served by a visiting ape every winter. This aged creature must make water often so is good for opening doors when Toby is off duty. Annie stalks this creature constantly:
When it limps, yawning and stiff towards the main den, Annie leaps down from the roof upon the porch and startles it.
It hauls wood from the distant wood place to the warm-for-Annie place, permitting Annie to expand her hunting range, using the human as a coyote and hawk deterant.
It digs holes way down by the water, giving Annie cover for hunting ducks.
It wheels rocks and dirt around in a big bucket with a wheel, which Annie leaps upon and rides, its otherwise pointless activity harnessed to good use.
When it snows, this human scrapes it up with a shinny metal platform, which Annie runs at and leaps off of as the idiot shovels.
When it emerges from the side den, Annie is always there, and reminds him whose den this is by shredding the lookout [porch] roof beams with her claws.
When it is cold or raining out, this creature goes out into the rain and stares at the puddles in the rain, from within its great stinking coat—thoughtfully in Annie own nighted color—as if puddles were a problem that can not be solved by going around. This idiocy provides Annie with a dry boot-shod ape foot to sit upon and scout for prey.
This human is not a reliable food source, but is a first rate door opener, eating little and coming and going much.
When this human walks to the ape bathing station with the towel, Annie reaches out from her perch on the dining room chair under the table—the padded one—and snags it, just to remind him who is boss.
This human sits at the table after dark playing cards with the food-bringer human and drinks rum—a useful ration for door opening humans, who must now come and go more often to urinate in the yard, maximizing Annie’s shadow-stalking killing potential.
Two nights ago, this human drank so much rum that it forgot that the padded dining room chair is Annie’s own regal throne.
Annie rubbed him, arched against him and even climbed up on the back of the chair behind his neck, purring for her throne.
Well, drunk apes have their limitations. As it continued to pour rum into its woolly muzzle, Annie leapt onto the table next to his elbow and got his attention. And—clear proof that humans are not evolutionary beings—rather then get up and make way for Princess of Darkness Annie, it smiled and reached for its glass again, as if she were, rather than his awesome mistress of darkness, a mere apparition! This was too much for Annie. She stepped between his muzzle and his drink and arched her back, preventing him from guzzling anymore intoxicant.
This almost became a full scale ape insurrection as the mama Ape rudely laid hands upon Annie and placed her on the floor. So, afronted, but still Queen, Annie showed mercy and grace, sat next to the old drunk ape, extended her paw, deployed only one single claw, and pressed it through his pants to his knee, just needling, not breaking the skin reminding him that he was seated above his station.
The drunken ape apologized, stood, moved the throne of darkness closer to the wood stove, took an unpadded ape seat, and dragged it under his posterior, as, pious once again, the other humans applauded Queen Annie, now seated mysteriously upon her throne.
Postscript
Toby is outraged to report that on Sunday, 13th, of Black History Month, when he should have been honored, that the entire servant staff: Food Bringer, Toby Cuddler, Mamma, Grandma Who Never Cleans Her Plate, and even the normally loyal Butt-Scratch the Hobo, who arrives during the winter months to scratch Toby’s dry rear haunches, since he is served by white folks who do not realize that he needs afrosheen treatments or his ass gets all ashy, abandoned Toby.
Toby was locked out of his own house and left bereft of servants, who caravaned out of the driveway in their vehicles. However, being a true born aristocrat, and mostly useless, since the door was traitorously barred and he would not be able to let the werewolf twins in to raid the pantry while the servants were at church, Tobias rose to the occasion and took the lead, running ahead of the servants in their cars until they reached the main road...and there he stood, like a lion at the gates of Babylon, the least he could do to impress the endlessly useful but restive servant class.
And Annie, Princess of Darkness, rolled over on her throne and stretched, resting her sleek limbs for the falling night and the coming hunt.
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posted: May 20, 2022   reads: 527   © 2022 James LaFond
Izzy and Amos
A Profile of Two of Man’s Best Friends: 2/14/22
I have been friends with Izzy and Amos for three years and three months now. They are eight, I think, starting to get old for their breed. They are the brother and sister out of a litter of mixed German shepherd and collie, some kind of collie or border shepherd.
Izzy is the sister and runs 100 pounds with a yellow-brown coat with black markings, with coarse hair.
Amos is a lot taller and ten pound heavier, with the same coloring on his legs and tail, but with frizzy collie like hair and a thick black coat like a rug over his back that makes him look like a bear from behind. He also has a thick black snout and a deep howl.
Izzy is the loyal guardian that stays by your leg while walking and Amos is the Dog of High Adventure. Once, two years ago, when they heard me skying with Lynn in the camper, they started rocking the camper back and forth with their big paws until I cam outside and assured them that I would walk them soon.
Amos herds chickens with his head and even tosses them into the coup with his mouth.
They are Toby’s friends and Toby invited them down to eat his food and clear the dog bowl for bacon and eggs while his master is asleep. To The Captain and family have awakened to these two werewolves licking their face as they stand next to their bed, as Toby owns the key to the mansion, a door opening dew claw.
Amos bit a census taker last year, for which he was rewarded by The Colonel with a bronze service star with oakleaf cluster.
Izzy and Amos are afraid of long guns, having some idea how that bear hide got on the wall.
These two do everything together and have observed a truce with Kenny’s 7 mules and this herd of 18 elk outside the pump room snacking on cedar palms and grass right now, for these three years.
Rabbits, giant moles and possums are on the menu.
If Toby leaves a bone out in the yard—Amos comes and gets in on the middle of the night.
Last year, the three of them chased an Amazon driver off the road, which encouraged me to build the berm at the end of the driveway.
Izzy and Amos love hiking, and yearn to be on the trail prowling for coyotes.
Last year, as I was coming down off the mountain a large dog, about a hundred pounds of golden-maned fury, something like an Ausie Shepherd but colored like an Irish setter, saw me above the brush and charged at me across a pasture.
This poor bastard did not see the dogs, who only come to my hips.
Izzy and Amos heard and Izzy cried to me, like she does before a walk and then pressed her body against my thigh, letting her know that she would stand by me.
Amos licked his fury chops and waited as the dog came growling in a fury through the brush, broke onto the access road with its eyes fixed hungrily on me, and then saw Amos, and said, “Awe shit!” and Amos rolled him over like a lapdog molesting a stuffed rabbit.
Amos o occasion gets obsessed with a scent and goes crashing off in the forest. Izzy will only go along with this for so long and returns to her masters.
Amos loves to cool off by lying in the snow and they both enjoy bathing in their cool snow melt drinking water. They guard the homestead at night, lounging out on the decking, and by day waiting for the Colonel to come home. On Saturday they get loaded into the back of the pickup and taken to town for chicken feed and supplies—well-behaved dogs indeed.
This past year they have developed a taste for indoor living and spend as much time as allowed lounging near the door for Amos and the wood stove for Izzy, on their round flop pads. When a visiting hoodrats walks by one or the other will reach out a paw as big as hoodrat paw, grab the shin through the pants leg, and aggressively insist on a belly scratching.
When this same wandering ape goes ditching down the road, and Izzy and Amos hear the pick and shovel on stone and gravel from up the way, they will materialize like magic, without a sound, right next to and suggest in whines, “You know, you are our favorite non-food-dispensing human. Why dig here—there are no moles here. Wouldn’t you rather go for a walk!? Wouldn’t you rather be a dog!”
Toby will then show up and snarl at them, reminding them who is the HNC. He will then look at me and snort as I dig and whine, “This one is hopeless—wanna eat some cat food back at my place?”
Izzy will then whine, “Sure, but I’m loyal,” and flop down in the muddy driveway and look at me with paws crossed.
Amos will then yawn and flop down, “Yeah, me too, I get bored just looking at this—but he needs protection.”
Toby will then snort in derision, “From what, from some dumber ape that dig?”
Toby will then lift his leg on my most recently raised fence post and prance off to the house, “Y’all are chumps!”
And Izzy and Amos will lie in the snow and rain and mud for hours, just making sure that their Master’s pet human may toil unmolested.
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posted: May 19, 2022   reads: 531   © 2022 James LaFond
'One of Those Guys'
The Ongoing Logistics of Comprehensive Failure
Watch "Living out of a Backpack 2022 Edition with James LaFond" on YouTube
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InTheseGoingsDown
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My longtime friend has a genuine interest in the mechanics of staying alive as as a stranger in a same land.
When I show up in a train station with a rucksack, armed security almost always heads directly for me to determine if I am a ticketed passenger, and if I am not, kick me out.
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posted: May 18, 2022   reads: 626   © 2022 James LaFond
'The Dark and Profound Abyss'
The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire by Edward Gibbon: Summation 2
Chapter 2
“The sovereign of the Russian deserts [Czar] commands a greater portion of the globe,” and a comparison of the extent of Alexander's and the Mongols' conquests is contrasted in their emptiness and fleeting state with the long rule and stability of Rome, which ruled the Middle Sea—that perennial object of prosperity—from 100 B.C. through A.D. 500, which blows away the combined reigns of the Mongols, Macedonians and Russian Czars, and “might almost induce us to forgive the vanity or ignorance of the ancients.”
That Roman Empire extended at length as wide as the American nation, with enemies on either side, and was as deep from north to south as America, with enemies, rather than cheap labor to north and south. Rome was indeed a unique achievement of administration.
“The superb edifice of Roman power...the obedient provinces of Trajan, were united by law,” begins Gibbon, and then descends into a comedy of clear juxtaposition that just might have once inspired the Monty Pythons Flying Circus troop:
“They enjoyed the religion of their ancestors...the policies of religion by the senate were happily seconded by the habits of the enlightened and the prejudices of the superstitious...the various modes of worship that prevailed were all considered by the people as equally true, by the philosophers as equally false, and by the magistrate as equally useful...”
The general tone of Roman governance as beneficent should be taken from Gibbon's perspective, as a member of the elite who were the objects of governance in his own time, who lived upon the backs of the tools and subjects of governance, atop the suffering of a barely free to unfree multitude who equaled in their silence the slaves of Rome, who outnumbered their masters by at least ten-to-one. [1] As honest and as critical as gibbon is, the reader should recall that he was of the top 1% and when eh speaks of freedom, liberty, beneficence and prosperity, he is speaking of the top 1% with no regard for the human chaff beaten from the grain of governance.
That said, the man has style, and if a hundred of my class analogues of Gibbon's time had to suffer and die so that he could send this book down to me, eh, I'll count it as a brutal blessing. Perhaps if we imagine Tiny Tim from A Christmas Carol curled up under Edward's desk, warming the author's feet on his quivering belly as the great man of letters dips his quill in the ink well, we might gain a more rounded perspective.
“And thus toleration induced not only a mutual tolerance but concord... the devote polytheist” [as cited, Herodotus is the model Polytheist] are presented as pre-ideological civilians not forever contending with each other over what exclusive truth was true, is presented as “a mild spirit of antiquity as they met before their respective altars” persuaded themselves that they agreed fundamentally and only differed in semantics. It is of some interest that we have utterly lost this ability to share perception and are ever bent on denying the perception of others.
“The moderating hand of a supreme magistrate, an eternal parent and omnipotent monarch,” required of such metaphysics is noted as a state that this reader sees as leading to a wider monotheism. Greek morals were based on man not God. Their “profound inquiry,” demonstrated the strength and weakness of the human understanding.”
Four Great Schools of Philosophy discussed by Gibbon
Platonic ideals, “an idea rather than a substance”
Stoics, he saw as lost in their work and unable to comprehend Creation.
Academics, “the modest science of the former induced them to doubt” stand for Gibbon's ridicule. It is so interesting that this is he ancient school of philosophy that is currently the framework for our entire worldwide system of learning.
Epicurians, “the positive ignorance of the latter induced them to a strident denial” are excoriated along with the academics.
Gods are objects of contempt for the elite is a well-stated point made by the author which seems perennial.
“The fashionable irreligion” of the elite in a world in which most people are religious, places Rome in a different position than the current American empire, as most Americans are not religious and have joined the fashionable elite in the worship of science and experts. In this way, perhaps due to the presence of electronic media, the population of Modern America seems more like the largely silent slaves of ancient Rome. Would this make America more or less robust than Rome?
“Viewing with a smile of booth pity and indulgence” concealing an atheistic sentiment beneath a religious sacrament the elite maintained the structural of the cults that they had ceased to believe in for the benefit of manipulation. “They concealed the sentiments of the atheist under the sacardotal robes” conducting cults of “indifference for them” as a means to steer the people in “the folly of the multitude...”
Gibbon is brilliant in his assessment of the metaphysical lays of Imperial Rome.
The ancient wisdom that the “the form of superstition that had received the benefits of time and circumstance” were best suited to rule in the locale where they were born was a syncretic view that will be under constant attack through the progress of Gibbon's work until “the final destruction of paganism.” This reader sees this as a question of civic scale brought on by Rome itself and in our time by our notion of fundamental sameness.
“Every city in the empire was justified in maintaining its ancient ceremonies.”
The author then points out that the strident acts of racial and social distinction engaged in by Athens and Sparta had doomed them to demographic decline.
“The zeal of fanaticism” “over the cold policy” of rule.
Athenian citizen numbers reduced by a third during their hegemony.
Romans multiplied by inclusion.
The Spartans had a ruinous exclusivity.
Gibbon again considers the Roman system of expanded social scale and that thus would ultimately clash with their constitution, in that the more people who are included in a republic or democracy the more all freedoms are lost to “an unwieldy multitude.”
1 3rd to 1 4th senatorial property must be in Italy, meaning that slavery was centralized. This seems to echo our current American plight where citizens have less rights than “persons” without citizenship, indicating that the plight of the American Citizen under the American person is further advanced here and now than the rule of the Roman under German invaders was in the 170s, that our plight is more akin to the Rome of 400.
Ancient authors were often Italian but not Roman.
Despite Gibbon;s love of the Roman system, he notes that roman administration constituted “the fashioning of the yoke.”
That the conquest of Pompey in Asia was triggered by King Mithridates massacring, 80,000 Roman aliens, almost all merchants, and saw most savage reprisals, suggests that America might see something less violent but no less economically impactful concerning the sale of public lands to private and international entities.
Notes
-1. 10-1 were the salve to free ratios of Athens and Sparta, polities that practiced less intensive agriculture than Rome, operated at much smaller scale [with scale of operation encouraging multiplication of labor to managerial units]. Figuring the Roman empire of the Antonines at 120 million, half being slaves, is an absurd ratio. With elite Romans sometimes owning tens of thousands of slaves, and typical elites owning hundreds at the minimum, this reader is inclined to place the minimum slave-to-free ratio in Rome at 3-to-1, meaning that if the figure of a sixty million free Romans would require at least 180 million slaves. Noting the Roman engineering as surpassing modern engineering up until the late 1800s, I am inclined to place the total population of slaves serving the 60 million people who enjoyed the benefits of Roman law, at between 180 to 240 million.
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posted: May 18, 2022   reads: 563   © 2022 James LaFond
Example and Precept
The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire by Edward Gibbon: Summation 1
Read by David Timpson
Chapter 1
“In the second century of the Christian era the Empire of Rome comprehended the fairest part of the earth...guarded by ancient renown and disciplined valor...their peaceful inhabitants enjoyed and abused the advantages of wealth and luxury...”
Gibbon eases into the twilight of the best run western civilization we know of, during The Peace of Rome, or the reign of The five good emperors: “Nerva, Trajan, Hadrian, Antonius Pious and Marcus Aurelius.”
He then immediately points out that it was these five men, who had finally, found five various methods of maintaining the “safety or dignity of Rome” according to “the precepts” of Augustus, the first emperor, who challenged his successors to abide by his conservative guidelines for maintaining this “fairest part of the world” his “advice for confining the empire into those [natural] limits,” These were adopted by the “fears and vices of his immediate successors,” Tiberius, Caligula, Claudius, Nero and the Flavians.
The worthless hazard that was Northern Europe both loomed and invited, peopled by “a hardy race of barbarians who despised life when it was separated from freedom.”
In this view, America seems to type as a Rome without an Augustus. It is noted that all defensible conquests were achieved by the Republic, and that the later Imperial Roman conquests were peripheral, hard won and of lesser value.
His summary of the conquest of Britain is a wonderful piece of writing, “Undertaken by the most stupid, maintained by the most dissolute and terminated by the most timid of Roman emperors...”
It is obvious that Gibbon sees British modern heritage as more Roman than Breton and this reader does not disagree. As much as Revolutionary France and Fascist Germany imitated ancient Roman military aesthetics, it was Great Britain that pursued a Roman model of civic colonization, and the Americans after them.
The redolent mental map presented in Gibbon's prose, the cultural texture and personality types revealed in his diction, are woven together in such passage as:
“Gloomy hills assailed by the winter tempest...over which the deer in the forests were chased by a troop of naked barbarians.”
The memorable summation of the Dacian War by Trajan—an actual genocide—was in fact a war of civilized mechanics against human metaphysics, in which the transmigration of the soul—echoing Hindu and Christian sentiments—believed in by the soulful Dacians was given wings by the soulless Romans who sent the freedom fighters off to Nirvana in five years of slaughter.
Gibbon explains beautifully how difficult it was for an imperator to forget the precepts of Augustus for the example of Alexander:
“As long as mankind shall continue to bestow more liberal applause on their destroyers then on their benefactors the thirst of military glory will ever by the thirst of its most exulted characters.”
Terminus was the minor god of boundaries who did not submit to Jove but did to Trajan. Hadrian declining to defend Trajan's conquests, Antonius Pious declining to travel the empire, and Marcus Aurelius finally facing the population pressure from those nations of free people, offers a shadow dance in which the man most able to judge the pressures facing his empire always chose a man of high ability with different qualities than himself: Soldier, Engineer, Priest, Warrior-Philosopher suited to the changing climes. “Despite these differences in personal conduct” they kept with the precepts of Augustus and maintained a nation most stable. Just as America and Europe are prosperous and war-free regions that beckon the subjects of chaotic countries to come hither, it seems that Rome during its long peace, became a migration destination for those fleeing turmoil.
A historian unafraid to describe a people as “degenerate” or a man as of “mean” or “exulted” character is a refreshment to the ears of this creature of the age of gray compromise and insipid negation.
Like the modern American war machine that rules most of the world through 900-plus military bases, the men who manned the Legions of Rome, were drawn from racially Nordic types of people and from rural working class families. That military tradition is the clearest aspect in which the postmodern American soldier and the legionaire of Late Antiquity are near mirror images. Both nations were and are “a constitutional republic” which at a certain point fell to rule through military power brokers.
That point came in about A.D. 50 with the elevation of Claudius by the Preatorian Guard, and the use of the U.S. Military to ensure the enthronement of an un-elected president in 2021. Since Rome did not “go to hell in a hand basket” until about 130 years later, with the passing of Marcus Aurelius, one might breathe the easier on the eve of 2022. However, technological change and social dislocation are currently greatly accelerated over those times.
Gibbon's telling of the composition of a Roman legion is perfectly accurate and dramatically stated in the appropriate places. The Roman cavalry trooper of the 100s A.D. seems to have been the prototype of the Medieval Knight. Various barbarians were used “to compel their dangerous valor” in service to Rome, which reminds one of the giving of citizenship to such martial folk as Filipino, Somoan and Peurto Rican under American arms. Of interest is that Gibbon points out in a footnote, that as men of “personal valor” and “military skill” became less numerous, “when men were no longer found their place was supplied by machines.” The analysis shows that ancient Roman camps were more efficient than early modern British, that the mechanical artillery was comparable to the gunpowder canon of circa 1800.
Mind you this was written at the very dawn of the Industrial Age, and that the weight born by the ancient soldier, “would oppress the delicacy of the modern soldier” demonstrates Gibbon's knowledge here and elsewhere that the soldier of his age was a malnourished and conscripted fellow as likely to be an urban boy as a rural one. Of course, the Brits, like the Romans, accepted barbarian [Scottish highland] volunteers for service.
Gibbon sneers at the Roman fear of the open Ocean. The size of the legion is accurately described as equal to a modern brigade, and not a division. Of great interest is the fact that less then 500,000 men manned all of the naval and army forces of the emperors, a total that would be exceeded by mere petty princes such as the Prussian Elector of Gibbon's age. This military occupation level is extremely low and must not be taken as reflective of a low population density, as intensive agriculture without any machine amplification of work was underway. As Gibbon would later note, a scheme, to dress the slaves in Rome alike was abandoned, as a realization that the slaves would discover their massed numerical advantage!
In this light, this reader would suggest, that Rome was excellent at destroying warrior societies, taking the warrior elements into the system of control, and forming a predatory matrix that had no internal enemy, only a dispersed and less well-equipped and supplied collection of atomized and external warrior societies, awaited employment as mercenaries, or allies, and incorporation as auxiliaries and eventually legionnaires themselves.
A nice prose evolution of early Roman, to Imperial Roman, to early modern political divisions are traced, noting that all of the then powerful Austrio-Hungarian Empire and much of the Ottoman-Turkish Empires were once within Roman boundaries.
“The present state of those countries” are noted, such as one area being “united in Turkish slavery!”
Apparently a Phil-Hellene, Gibbon cannot help but gasp at the fact that such storied nations as Argos, Athens and Sparta and others would all be encompassed within a single Roman province. This titanic verbal tour of geography delves back onto early Roman and Greek history and up to Gibbon's time. Noting that Asian revolutions have always been “humbly obeyed” by Egypt, Gibbon questions the convention of strictly defined geographical continents. Gibbon's declination to “condescend to style” the piratical heads of North African state in his time as actual monarchs is dearly combined with a dismissal of Voltair'e geography.
“It is easier to deplore the fate than describe the actual condition of Corsica” is a hilarious piece of contemporary commentary, and is edified by his extolling of “the little rock of Malta” defying the Turks while Europe looked away as the culmination of his geographic circuit of the ancient Roman empire from Iberia and Italy up and around Europe, down through the Near East and across “savage” Africa and back again.
Reading Gibbon's description of the ancient space, updated for his time, is like reading a recitation of aborigine American cultures and what has befallen their homelands, such as Detroit becoming a post-industrial crime zone and the mountain lake of Mexico becoming a 20-million beaner ghetto.
05.19.22   Terres Rouges — The US are less like Rome and more like Carthage pretending to be Rome. The child sacrifice and money worship gives it away.
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posted: May 17, 2022   reads: 647   © 2022 Terres Rouges
'Making Reading Cool Again'
The Arkham Podcast #1 - Dave Martel of the Bizarchives
A worthwhile discussion of real working people publishing as novice writers, alongside of experienced writers in an old school style, in opposition to "Big Pub" and the industrial mind machine.
Thanks to InTheseGoingsDown for sending this link, a pleasing listen for this working class writer.
05.16.22   nc — just claim your a long lost jew who is losing your eyes and get the wej to replace them with some Bantue ones!
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posted: May 16, 2022   reads: 367   © 2022 nc
The Boxer Dread
Completing The Broken Dance: 2/17/22
“For the quick play of cunning hands…”
-Quintas Smyneaus, the Siege of Troy, circa A.D. 400
Dear Mrs. Lockhart is editing and arranging The Broken Dance as an omnimbus coffee table size hardback history book. It will Contain:
-The First Boxers
-The Gods of Boxing
-All Power Fighting
It will not contain The Boxer Dread, which, due to my eye condition, the loss of the library I was working from and the dispersal of the two remaining 5 inch thick binders of notes and illustrations, cannot be completed. This, The Broken Dance ends on the eve of Mid Antiquity, with the death of Alexander in 323 B.C.
This made The Lady cry over the phone.
So a compromise will be done.
The binders are somewhere for perhaps eventual use by some other. I recall most of the material as I never wrote the work, which is one way I forget non-fiction subject matter.
In addition to the original three volumes, will be The Boxer Dread, an Epilogue. The only illustration for this is the match from 212 B.C. between Klietomachus [whose home I have forgotten, but I think is Thebes, though this makes little sense in that Alexander wiped out Thebes around 335] and Aristonicus of Egypt by Joseph Bellofatto.
In Of Lions and Men is the Poem, the Strongest Man of Hand, which stands as near the entirety of boxing from Feudal Europe. There is also the story of Euthymus, from Masculine Axis that should be included.
I have agreed to do a series of Substack podcasts with Lynn, so that she might use those transcripts to render the following chapters in The Boxer Dread, with a guestimated recording time below:
-1. Parasite, Professional and Philosopher
Boxing, Wrestling and Pankration from Alexander to Augustus
1 hour
-2. Sacred Synod of Heracles
Boxing, Wrestling and Pankration Under Rome from Paul to Justinian
1 hour
-3. The Strongest Man of Hand
Boxing’s Death and Reanimation from Attila to Leonardo
20 minutes
-4. Cock of the Walk
The Rise of Boxing in English Honor Culture from James Figg to Jem Mace
1 hour
-5. Clebrity
The Dominance of Boxing in American Masculine Culture from Bill Richmond to Edgar Rice Burroughs
1 hour
-6. The Essence of Boxing
An Afterward on the Nature and Future of Boxing
20 minutes
I intend to begin each discussion with a recollection of primary sources.
Thank you, Lynn. On considering our recent discussion I was surprised how much of the material I can recall from this stillborn book and think it should be shared before it fades into unsalavagable recess.
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posted: May 16, 2022   reads: 654   © 2022 James LaFond
The Tent
American Dreamboat #6
Dillon had no problem with traffic, it was all automated and every single stinking car, truck and bus stopped and scolded him and the two buses he cut in front of buzzed his wristphone, but weakly, for it was pretty dead.
He didn’t like the thing creeping and peeping on him, so he left it on always especially at night, so that the solar charge would not hold. It was against the law to take them off because they housed your identification, so he didn’t dare go that defiant route. Not even any of Rico’s people took off their wristphones. Only skinnies could get away with it without cops swooping down on them.
After apparently collecting two pedestrian fines on his wristphone, Dillon broke hard up Hadith Street, which would lead to Hadith Road and eventual freedom. He paced the bus trip down and figured he could make the run back to Rico’s people to check on how he was doing in under an hour—if nothing went wrong.
He soon crested the rise where Monument Street crossed Hadith Street just before it turned into Hadith Road and looked up at the towering statue of Barack Hussein Obama on that Arabian stallion and kind of felt a thrill that he was bypassing such a place of power when a man reached out and grabbed his shoulders with greasy fingers and he turned, startled and looked into the face of a tall, dirty looking man in fine starched suit and fez, ready to fight, just like him and Rico had fought the skinny kids so many times.
The man’s eyes went wide when he looked into Dillon’s eyes and he grinned through broken teeth, “My friend, my boy, we have a tent of refreshments for the weary. Please, come, partake.”
The man said this as he motioned with an easy open hand at a big white tent, outside of which were men and boys wearing fez hats, who handed out water cups, and flavored ice cones to passers-by.
Dillon shrugged, “Okay” and began to accompany the man whose hand remained on his back, urging him on, “You must be so thirsty, young master. A boy as fair as you should not toil so under the angry sun.”
Something then changed in the urgency of the greasy hand on his wet back and he ducked, slapping the man in the balls and ran back past him as the dirty creep groaned and hit his knees and Dillon tore as fast as he could away from the tent as three men with knives gave chase. As he ran further out Hadith Street and it turned into Hadith Road, a skinny little black kid on the sidewalk cheered him on, “They fuckin’ my brutha back dare—run, whiteboy, run—stay in da street dey gotz skulkers creepin’!”
Dillon looked over his shoulder and saw the men divert towards that same skinny kid who threw something at them and then began talking into their wristphones. Knowing that there would be skulkers up ahead, Dillon powered down to a quick jog and stayed on the center line, stopping oncoming traffic, collecting pedestrian violations from buses, until finally the thing died on his wrist and went cold.
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posted: May 15, 2022   reads: 356   © 2022 James LaFond
Kettle
Scene 6 of The Acts of Awes West
Old, tawdry Reverie wooed him beckoning-like to shallow sleep to prod and tease of trod traces, gone-days and name-faces all story booking in the muddled dream-ways…
The Rose Knight rode first on his mighty destrier, following the old rock-hoping Indian Medicine Crow up the switchback way.
Behind him rode Indian Ben, loyal as a mutt hound upon his white-socked pony, wearing his buff jacket proudly.
Next rode The Lady of Roses on her dun palfrey, the nunnish bride of their Lord, who had her husband only for Easter Reprieve and Harvest Leave, 2 months a year. Her time was spent weaving, embroidering and dying their banners, jackets, cloaks and saddle blankets—even their bedrolls—in red upon gray with yellow and black checker cuffs and hems, a red rose sewed on every breast. Such was The Lady’s art. Yet, despite Her strong purpose, had come a crisis of faith in The Lady’s heart. So Her husband took leave with five loyal men, leaving the squire and corporal at Pea Ridge Bastion for June and July.
Behind The Lady rode Ranger Mike and Ranger Grog, old veterans slouching over their pony’s necks, each leading a spare mount.
Next rode Noose, a pony boy of 13, blooded thrice in battle, owner of two scalps, a man according to Injun ways, leading four remounts [0] and the pack horse—little Apple the dapple—who bore on her back the iron kettle for Medicine Wheel Man.
Taking up the rear and watching the back trace was Sergeant Sacks, wiry like a whip and hard as iron, riding his pony and leading his destrier.
When they halted, the lot of the remounts, the draft horse and the Sergeant’s destrier [1] would be left in the pony boy, Noose’s care.
Noose so wished to distinguish himself so that he might become a Ranger. Despite his two kills—of those two damned Comanche who had killed his horse and his remount in Kansas—he was not ready for Ranger:
“Ye too danged small yet,” opined Sergeant Sacks, “ta saber up to a man. En I sees ya know’s it Noose, else ya wouldn’ pilfer every pistol of a done gun.”
He knew it true, he was “the pistol boy” a distinction at least over the other pony boys, a pistol on each leg—both fine wheel-locks taken from a French renegade on a night scout, stole from his very tent pole. There was also two trusty but slow flintlock dueling pistols gifted him by The Rose Knight for doing in those Comanche what waylaid him at the horse stand. And there was his Issue, that ancient flintlock, more club then pistol, which he wore in his sash before his jacket, his wicked 20 inch knife, double-edged called a toothpick, in the back of the sash.
A pony boy guarded the mounts in camp, in pasture, hobbled in a dismounted in battle and on leads during a running fight—a cowboy armed with a pistol to ward off a horse thief or two.
In European military terms, a knight was a heavy horseman, operationally rendered nearly obsolete by muskets in Europe, but the heart of their unit and a fierce addition to battle in crusading terms, where machete-wielding Voodooists and lance-armed heathens took the field.
A ranger was a combination of a Hussar, a dragoon and a scout, and in these various capacities were organized against various foes by their Sergeant and Squire [which was like a captain in regular, secular service] with the Knight in overall command always looking for the moment in battle when best to ply his hand.
Noose was as many steps removed from His Master as could be.
The rangers liked him but teased him, calling him “Rattle o’ Gun” and “Young Gun.” No other pony boy ever stood to him—he was their “knight” in camp and fort, even the Sarge o’ Boys, Vulch, age 16, treated him with respect. He had won every boy scrap no matter the age and size, and was fiercely proud of being cut down from a swinging rope by The Rose Knight rather than taken from the stocks or the whipping post, or from a stinking gaol or a planter’s porch.
He was, “Noose,” and as hard as he was for one so young, his heart went out to The Knight and Lady of Roses who seemed to suffer from some inward crisis that only afflicted those big-wigged sorts that held the high places in life.
The Rangers fought for honor, rum, whores and loot under the Rule of Saint Martial and the Banner of Saint George. Noose fought to become a ranger. But the Knights and squires, they truly fought for God, Jesus Christ and the Holy Ghost; and for this service they seemed to pay some inward price.
The Lady was blond of hair and beautiful, had forsaken child bearing and care for banner sewing, prayer and hurt nursing. Her and her Husband Knight were mates of a higher kind, forbid to relate like a ranger and a by-the-night-coin wife.
Wondered he: ‘What eats at them so? They have all I’d want and are so hobbled in heart—how far away their eyes look, like into nowhere.’
Sergeant Sacks hissed from behind him, “Eyes on the ridge lines and deadfalls, Noose. Ye scout is never done.”
“Yezzir,” snarled Noose, and he broke off the worry over big-wigged things and took his eyes on the hunt for Scalp Three.
Up ahead and now unseen, it no longer his business, the old Crow medicine man walked ahead of his haunted Master, leading them up Medicine Wheel Mountain so that The Lady of Roses might gift this great black kettle wrapped in sackcloth to “The Sorcerer” in return for an answer to what ever ailed her soul.
Waking out of bold youth up into cold old age, he saw the fire had near died and lurched awkwardly for a split of piss-pine and a round of aspen to stoke her back up—that fire demon so warm and so hungry of wood.
His robes clung wet close to his sweating skin. As he opened them to dry over the rack and reached for a split log to feed the fire, he recalled what Father had said of dreams: that they were not our dreams, but the dreams of God, of angels and even of devils.
A chill grew within his body as his chest wheezed and he removed his shirt to dry on the vent hood hooks.
Worried he: ‘Was that dream God judging, an angel reminding or a devil nudging?’
He drew on the dry outer robe and piled more wood, three more splits of piss pine, three small rounds of aspen, all tepeed-up about a heavy round of lodge pole. Satisfied that the fire would last for hours, he sat back down, close as spit to that storied kettle.
Notes
-0. Ponies, who served as demi-pack horses bearing the saddle bags and bedrolls of their rider while he rode the alternate mount. Remounts were saddled identically to their alternate, except that saddle guns and sabers remained with the rider and supplies with the remount. Both horses had two canteens of water. Rangers were armed with saber, sheathed in a saddle scabbard, an Arkansas toothpick in the back sash, a pistol in the front sash and a saddle gun, a short musket. Their jackets were buffed with quilting [not padded] and sewn with dull iron rings about the collar and light blued-steel plates on the shoulders. Leather chaps and cowboy boots were worn over buckskin pants.
Indian scouts and pony boys wore slouch hats. Rangers wore slouch hats on the march. But at posts and in battle donned their mail-coifed steel war hat, covered in greased canvas to prevent reflection, with a beaked vizor and simple ‘t’ within a ‘U’ barred face cage. Pony boys were armed with toothpick and pistol only, their jackets not reinforced with iron and steel.
-1. The destrier is a tall warhorse ridden always by Knights. However, the destrier of a squire or sergeant would only be mounted for training, for battle and when said subordinate was acting as a proxy and discharging the duties of his master, a Knight of Saint George.
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posted: May 14, 2022   reads: 375   © 2022 James LaFond
Goodness Grace Us
The Upside of the Downside, or Positives about Da Vid: 2/21/22
We are entering the third year of the never-ending lab-made plague. For two years I have been telling people that the masks and the plague are not going away, that it’s too big of a racket. Finally, I have grown tired of saying, ‘I told you so,’ to those I love, and began to wax positive on the verge of modern night as we left church yesterday, for my final visit to the house of worship this year.
What good has been wrought by the plague mongers who sought to do only evil?
It is a rule of historical thumb, that those men who insist upon acting as vile gods upon the earth, consistently fall short of their aims and generate positive effects. An example of how disease can be good, was the Plague of the 1330s, which caused such a massive labor shortage that the working class gained some ground on the parasitic class for a hundred years or so, until Modernity was invented to more completely enslave us to our earthly masters. Let’s start there.
1. Retail food wages have risen more in 2 years than they rose between 1964 and 1984. In light of the fact that these wages dropped from 1992 through 2019, that is a huge boon for some of the most downtrodden among us.
2. Enforcement fatigue is weakening government tyranny. Just like when a boxer reaches too far for a punch, when the government tries to control everything, they began to lose their grip on power. I currently know numerous tradesmen who are avoiding jaxxination and mask slavery even on government worksites. This is related to #1 above.
3. Good people have lost jobs, which means good people are now starting their own businesses, helping counter some of the ever-expanding corporatism.
4. Good people have been forced to behave like criminals to avoid unjust laws, which is good in that criminal activity is counter to Civilization and Civilization is the ultimate transhuman enemy of humanity. The more crime, the better for humanity and the worse for corporations. Only government thrives under high crime, and government is actually less aggressive and effective than corporate mind control, as witnessed by the rush to privatize mandates. Yes, government is 100% evil. But, it is less effective at mind control than the media, academia and corporate compliance measures that use our comprehensive worship of money as a lever against us.
5. Fat people die at a higher rate from brovid and thus oxygen thieves are on the wane.
6. People of color die at a higher rate from brovid, decreasing the force pool of thugs available to hunt my pale ass to extinction.
7. People have been forced to home school and do remote learning, which weakens the reach of educational institutions to indoctrinate our children and grandchildren into hating us.
8. Most importantly, bitches who are not pretty, but have great bodies, thrive in mask culture, which is a form of justice. Women are born with or without pretty faces and age robs them regardless of merit. But to maintain a nice figure, a woman must work hard. Therefore, the fact that rough looking bitches have been downtrodden by pretty-faced bitches, even when they have rocking bodies, is being reversed to a more functional beauty standard.
05.14.22   NotBillGates — Μіϲrоѕоft is into the remote learning hard. The indoctrination continues.
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posted: May 13, 2022   reads: 911   © 2022 NotBillGates
Hobo Videos
Two Brief Videos with InTheseGoingsDown
Packing up to head from Pennsylvania to Baltimore
Drinking Beer and talking history with Adam and Nick at Mister Grey's Place
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posted: May 12, 2022   reads: 917   © 2022 James LaFond
‘Why Fire the Truck Drivers?’
Canadian News of Leviathan’s Hooves Raking the Flinty Earth: 1/26/22
The Captain’s wife and the Colonel’s wife were walking with the dogs and the Crackpot above the mist on the mountain road this morning, when the Captain’s bride said, “I have a friend in Canada [1] who sent me a picture of empty shelves and was astonished that the Canadian government fired thousands of truck drivers when they crossed back into Canada unvaxxed. Why would a government treat its people like that?”
On the upside, America could use more truck drivers.
A government is first and foremost a social organism of control. It’s identity is vested in its ability to control its population. Further, our notion of governance is based on our notion of parenting, which is based in the English and German spheres [2] that focused on daily beating of children, alternative schemes of punishment and humiliation, and also of sale and rental of disobedient children to America. America and Canada in particular were built on the backs of punished youths sold into these nations to labor unto death for the Master Class, a class which has always, across Western history, taken upon itself the roll of parenting the underclass, from the brutal treatment of white trash to the fetish pet keeping of imported tropical races.
This is what our societies are made of. In the military sphere the spirit of the soldier must be broken into blind obedience before it is built, which makes the civilized soldier more prone to PTSD than the savage barbarian or ancient hoplite, and more easily controlled. This is just one example of how Western society’s slave basis wells up within our systems of control. For instance, the western military dictum that the soldier must fear his NCO more than the enemy, is the use of obedience over courage to develop social control in sync with higher technology platforms. For, this idea, only comes into play in Roman and modern military systems. [3]
The idea that obedience is more important than initiative is an outgrowth of a military-social complex that uses superior technology. This superior technology permits the mediocre and even frightened soldier to prevail over the enthusiastic warrior. It also places the Master Class in peril, as the Roman elites learned to their dismay and to the tune of dozens of slain emperors. For the soldiers who operate the technology hold the key to turning upon the Master Class. Thus we see the purging of warrior-mentality officers in the U.S. military since exactly 2001. [4]
Canada is the agricultural clinic for America for the dawning Ice Age, which is what all of this Master Class panic is about. Crop failures in Canada, including wheat and potato have already occurred and will be mirrored in the Lower 48 by 2031. As big as government is in the Western World, U.S. citizens outnumber their masters by 100 to 1. These many experiments with emasculation and social control, making us do things like wearing face diapers without any benefit, just to get us to obey, are crucial steps in achieving compliance of the masses before the famines of 2030 to 2060.
The technological edge of the modern military will easily permit the U.S. Military to exterminate hundreds of millions of Americans with only 2 million government operatives and far few combatants. However, this would trigger the defection of soldiers and NCOs, the working class officer the soldiers are supposed to fear. This happens when militaries drawn from a population are turned on that population. A minority of military men will join the population, which is enough to make Master Class defeat a possibility, though not a likely one. Note that in Plantation America, Hessian soldiers most often defected as units lead by the very NCOs whose role it was to terrorize those soldiers into obedience.
So, in the current setting, with fiends like Brill Yates investing in herd culling νаϲсіոes and agricultural land to be taken out of cultivation so that he can reduce food supplies and at the same time promoting factory made food, there is a real goal of feeding us from centralized food production rather than diverse agriculture. When a controlling party begins to lose control and respect, the ham-fisted quest to gain respect through brute means is likely, for it is instinctive.
World food reserves should be depleted by 2030, just when the Eddie Solar Minimum brings minimal to zero sunspot activity and increased volcanism as we are now experiencing has significantly cooled temperate growing regions. Canada is a clinical study for social control just as Baltimore was in 2015 a clinic on urban anarcho-tyranny that went live nation wide in 2020 and has yet to abate, as it is intended to continue through 2031.
Imagine, if you will, a drunk father who does not work, but sends his wife and children out to work and punishes and beats them if they fail to bring him their paychecks, or if they buy something he does not approve of. Imagine how this man would become more desperate as his sons grew into defiant youth and his daughters and wives sought the refuge of other men? Eventually, he knows, his sons will either walk away or turn the tables on him, he either abandoned or beaten in his own illgotten house. That is the moral crisis facing every modern nation, for they are all either abusive fathers or cruel and domineering mothers, left with the choice of either breaking their abused human property, driving them away, or giving way in collapse as their bitter children either take over or tear down their house of unspared rods.
Notes
-1. Everybody I know in Washington has Canadian contacts and have spent some time across the border.
-2. Our parenting traditions and schooling methods and military induction and training traditions are taken from these two sources predominantly.
-3. The Ancient Roman Republic was the direct template employed by The American Founding Fathers and the inspiration for modern military reforms beginning in 1648, but extending back to Machiavelli.
-4. The Soviets did this in the 1930s.
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posted: May 12, 2022   reads: 926   © 2022 James LaFond
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