There she sat restless upon the surf bounding roughly by. Once a fine ship. An Indiaman. A once fine hulk, now with sinews de-masted and sails de-breasted by a foul wind off Madagascar. A squall by not some not underwhelming sense of mistaken reckoning. The fore deck in shambles and her hull breached. The three sat high up upon the amphitheater of piled stones that now served as her quay. Barely a spit of sand that her master had found by the grace of God before wind and sea and coral rock could have any further way with her. God and the Devil only, who could now tell if her stout oaken keel had succumbed to having its back broken grinding across same? The trio now shivering with impotent rage and trepidation at the slim prospects that the curse of unexpected bad weather had left them that now lay ahead.
A search of another craft far inland deposed a curious collection of ten disassociated items. Some as mundane as a raggedy doll and an old corroded brass plate watch and fob. The most disturbing find being a living thing whose shape held to no known convention strictly identifiable as a recognized species on this earth. A milky colored greenish cast to what appeared to be an uneasy combination of mushroom and asparagus. Something that lay there the similarity of lungs heaving lost in the conundrum of what for it might have been serving as same. Where it had come from was suggested by the broken frame of something disk-like and fractured. Silver metal of a sort that suggested no terrestrial equivalent. The occupant of same offering the most disturbing element of their immediate collection laying at the end of items so much more common to their sensibilities.
The lounge room of the apartment across the hall was full as he stood before the open closet doors in the bedroom. They seemed oblivious of his presence as he stared into the limbo of his own disconcerted thoughts. To his shock and surprise she stood beside him. Barbara. Her entrance as much a mystery as the fact of the appearance of her person. Only for an moment and then she left. Leaving her discontent to mingle with his disappointment to leave an inky film about the room of regret. Now he felt that eyes were prying at him studying his demeanor at her loss. Though unbearable to his sea of raging emotions within he kept up the fiction of remaining inert and unmoved. The sorrow filling him up so rapidly that it felt in a short span of time that it would overcome his neck and burst forth through every portal above. Still he carried on perusing the emptiness of the cubicle before him as if looking for his coat.
The top of the stairs just outside the apartment revealed that this location had been more appropriately a public venue held within what might have been architecturally intended as a hotel or meeting center. He collapsed down into sitting crouched upon the upper steps. Refraining from a swirling sense of spiritual vertigo that sought to whisper to him that he might consider hopping quickly into final flight over the railing just behind him. A just solution in so many ways to cure the guilt and stupidity of his former deeds. Why was he such an empty useless vessel of vacuous circumstantial emotions that like some rare vintage was never really shared? Why had he not shared his heart with her so long ago past when she had given him the opportunity? Was he such a perennial spoilt child that he could not help but further embarrassing the both of them by carrying on for days after in pressing a quest that had clearly demonstrated no intention on following up upon?
He swayed back and forth as the feelings seemed to build to suggest that he had indeed been in love with her. Even if he had not been in love with her enough to through all caution to the wind! The railing behind him waited with the promise of its flying lessons leading quickly to a final view and true oblivion. The presence of another interloper unexpectedly casting a shadow over him from behind. A man! A man dressed in suit and tie appropriate of some formal description of public trust spoke out gently to him as if he might need assistance. The official station suggested by his voice and his manner stopping all thoughts of unbearable loss and that ready antidote of immediate self-destruction. He put on a mask of complacence all the while knowing that his current performance was instrumental to his keeping his freedom. After a few moments interchange he felt that he had rounded the bend in some way. And the man walked off leaving what was for him a chilling promise of an imminent return. Gone for the moment this house genie had set his heart to beating at a furious pace. Escape was all he could think of as he tripped down the stairs as casually as his legs would allow.
To his horror he realized that he had not found his coat back int he closet of the suite now far above. Dare he return he thought to himself, the intercession of that official stranger would most assuredly preclude its use. He had no wish to become an inmate of some hospital! If indeed this is what this space that he had lost mental sight of had truly been all along from the start? He padded back down the main hallway imagining the cold Winter wind outside and what he would do without any appropriate covering containing wallet, cards, money and keys. The trail back led to a fork where the inference of an escalator peeked out to the one side and a low stair suggested further to the left. The notion that only the risk of returning the way he had just came into whatever was now waiting for him might be the only solution. How he hated this society for so easily casting him as a murderer in mentally alleging that he was so ready to frivolously take his own life. Who were these people that demanded entry to his thoughts and felt empowered to redirect the intentions of his should when he felt that he had reach that point that he had had enough? How terrible after all was this empty pursuit of finding that lost trail of one’s long lost fleeting love.
Now that the sheep’s clothing has been thrown off and the ‘wolves‘ of Wall Street are running wild in an open attack upon anything Caucasian, I feel that it is high time to unburden myself about a few things that have bothered me. Things that for too many of you that you still won’t touch like why the cartel that has always run Hollywood was so insistent that a full moon could turn a man into a wolf. As if such superstitious fantasies that could be attributed to some modern day underlying reality. The once grievous terminology that is now part of contemporary patois being mind fuck. Their mighty sword to inflict “great vengeance and furious anger” (Ezekial 25:17) against the enemies of Israel. This can literally be embodied in their products released for general viewing over the years that salved their white European audiences into complacency while tricking them into self-destructive viewpoints through artful shorelines using ethnic shills. Considering that in the classic modus operandi of the modern detective one looks for both motive and opportunity their are plentiful examples connected with the inception of same. The cult of the magus that goes back to Darius the Great, who as in the words of he old Negro spiritual “literally let their people go” in 519 BC, is synonymous with entrancing other peoples so as to take their treasure and ultimately destroy them. A cycle that has been repeating itself without interruption over all the years in-between. The true birthplace of the notion of Hollywood being to capture ones attention, confuse, and instill false thoughts being the basis of the practice of magic. Can anything explain better why the entire population of every other modern society on this planet seems beset by such inner turmoil? Who could have imagined two decades back that the most valued possession in ones inventory of material objects would be one that they could hold in their hand and daily capture their entire focus of life? The older technology being that honey trap of the old grand Baroque movie palaces of the nineteen-thirties when the national money supply was ‘mysteriously’ contracted forcing most into economic want of the dime or dollar to get in? The power of the motion picture and those singular products released at pivotal points in history precluding larger world events equally unfathomable. That is of course if one dares to directly take a probing unflinching look!
Take for example the year 1947 two years after the conclusion of the complete destruction of their avowed enemy, the German people, many events that magically occurred at the same time had a certain synchronicity not unlike so many modern ones day. On Nov. 29, 1947, the United Nations General Assembly passed a resolution calling for Palestine to be partitioned at the expense of indigenous Arabs and Christians for European Jews, allowing for the formation of the Jewish state of Israel. The National Security Act of 1947 enacted a major restructuring of the United States government’s military and intelligence agencies. And, seemingly far less noteworthy, MGM released the movie, A Gentleman’s Agreement, based on Laura Z. Hobson’s best selling novel. A storyline plot in which (white) Christian a journalist played by Gregory Peck poses as a Jew to research an exposé on antisemitism in New York City. The picture went on to be nominated for eight different Oscars and won three. How convenient! So egregious was its release at the pivotal time when the Jewish inspired doctrine of Soviet Communism was actually found to be directly entrenched within the highest offices of the USA that it upset the House Un-American Activities Committee as it was considered a tactic of interference with the investigation of some of its key creators. Elia Kazan, Darryl Zanuck, John Garfield, and Anne Revere all being called to testify before the same committee. The author not un-coincidentally being the ‘first female director’ of Time magazine and birthed by radical Socialist Russian Jewish parents in part behind The Jewish Daily Forward. A politically focused publication in its own right today now stripped down to the title Forward. Her book publisher another Jewish mega-influencer of his day, Richard L. Simon of Simon & Schuster, a company that dominated publishing. Birds of a feather having a marked similarity as of old in sticking together?
One might suggest that the placement of these and other events were instrumental in paving the way in terms of softening public opinion in the USA for supporting the implantation of the long standing project of a Jewish state in Palestine. The culmination of the payoff by the Triple Entente for twice bringing the United States out of isolationism to defeat the rising economic dominance of turn of the century Germany. One violating the greatest invention of modern World Jewry, the burned, but seemingly never singed, offering of that ongoing modern myth and money-making proposition termed the Holocaust. Forget the facts, this is Hollywood! And not ironically, this is the current state immoral of the world where most who are electronically plugged in the grid believe in space aliens and contentious generations of women that can easily physically best all men rather than partner with them. A global financial based society that thrives of the deception that its controllers are routinely allowed to charge obscene levels of compound interest just for their printing of paper alone. The notion of continuously producing that same old magic of shifting public opinion now currently singled out as ‘fake news’ and box office tanking socially immoral culturally toxic blockbusters. How odd that so many of these enterprises routinely trip themselves up under direct scrutiny in terms of pervasive violence, sexual perversion and misquoting the facts. The notion of collective guilt and self-destructive powerlessness always foisted upon white culture by the end of each presentation. Is it any wonder that the indoctrination of successive generations has led to false notions that will simply enslave them in the employ of destroying their own kind? It is too bad that the book burning of the twenty-first century goes on silently in the developed preference easily manipulated electronic media as opposed to very quickly disappearing conflictory paper.
“And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who attempt to poison and destroy my brothers. And you will know my name is the Lord when I lay my vengeance upon thee.” Ezekial 25:17 (a key portion of the Hebrew Pentateuch, AKA Torah/old testament)
The proud parent thinking that they had done the right thing taking their child to the amusement park asked, “Well! How was it?” The little boy stared back quizzically and replied, “I’ll tell you when I finally get back from the very last one.” And who of any of us can say that we have ever gotten off that merry-go-round since? Or indeed have wanted to? Even if it finally kills everything about us that may have been decent in the end? We spend the night in fear of our own cowardice to act in our own behalf. Leaders and perpetrators may be one and the same but the real party at fault is ourselves for going along. Is the life of a fantasy soaked slave so sweet that he cannot risk breaking his chains? What is so magnificent about carrying the very weapon of your enemy about in your hand and then taking it’s cancerous emanations into your head? Who told you that you could not wash your own clothing by hand in a washtub? Who told you that you had to allow yourself to be injected with the same poison that is spread by the same institutions that wish to eliminate you? Why must your take a necktie as anything beyond what it is intended to symbolize beyond a noose that you eventually hang yourself with? The populations of the major cities are simply self deluded fools that think that their lifetimes are simply about being owned like spoiled pets. Fulfilling a false illusion of individuality while in fact they are merely rearranged cogs glued into place on phantom wheels designed to grind them into their own slow inevitable destruction. The plans of which having been planted through careful drama’s endless repetition written by those very enemies that have lived amidst them for generations as parasites. The existence that your persist in perpetuating is your own folly and no one else’s. You let ‘evil‘ rule existence, that less than ironic polar opposite of ‘live‘, and then wait around humbly, like empty headed sheep, for the consequences to catch up to you. The only sure thing in this equation being your own assured end on someone else’s terms.
How to meet your end. Do you hold out your hand like a hobo? Thumb out in the relative direction of travel that you wish to go? To new places where no one knows you. And those few that do only will find you again in a passing sigh at the discovery of your obituary. Is this mortality? Are we all so timid that we cannot risk the road and the reality of life beyond the waiting chaos of another day? Who are the zombies now? Those who would brave the wilderness living ont he edge? Or the rest of use who are terrified at the prospect of no one any longer saying, “Hello?” Can you say goodbye to an entire existence of your own few endless decades? Who is the captain now? To give up the power of the illusion of certain destiny in a bus ticket. To be willing to be left in the middle of nowhere and not survive. In the final chapter that you yourself have not read but can only write. The one that you suddenly realize in shock is that last instant. Who is the fool then? Who is the fool now? Maybe we are all fools to think otherwise?
This universe feasts on questions. The emptiness of chaos ever eternally hungry and needing to be filled. All the temples of the world that sanction safety mere dust on your divan. The gold melted down. The metals gone to rust. Smiling corpses of fractured marble and granite. Nothing survives! Yet life persists? We all dream on at the foot of an awakening volcano. The approach of warm covers in hot magma.Stay to still and the birds will peck your eyes out. You will wear down to the ankles. Yet inside you will be alive. Fatally entombed within the withering self. Needing to be free of the past that weighs you down. Those unkind stares that convey short tempers and a basic irritation that people like you are still alive. Short fuses and big lawns. They all want their fantasies free of you. So how do you survive? Commit suicide by just walking out the door without ever stopping to look back? Ride the rails until one day your head lays squashed upon it? So many questions that cannot be answered except through inevitable actions. So get going and find out!
The doors of old familiarities close and other theoretically open. Or so they say? Your’s is a universe neglected. So filled to the brim with that others now considered as refuse from the hoary distant past. These gates are to your palace. Neglected. When you become quiet enough to remember so. Old melodies of sad love gone awry. Plodding finger strummed lute-like across faded things. Who can remember their sting? Those old disappointments when love’s ship was pushed aside by an ill wind upon rocks of a foreign shore. And now, as all else fails, you are brought back to that very moment when you once again abandoned all. And now. You want to hear that melody sung again from the sad living instrument of her bygone voice. That very same one that so long ago you heard last before you turned her into a mermaid. Bereft of limb and heart. The very one that you left so far back and behind by you lack of virtue betwixt land and sea. You deserved your sorrows. You deserve this death. Locked out from what once made life worth living. Sitting now peacefully before the gates of time. Errant winds of time caressing you absentmindedly like that same forgotten hand. So long absent. Long and slow are the strings that drag this feeling out of you. The ayres about you moaning in their slow mournful cry of sailors, decks awash, caught within their tears. Too late. Eternal winds blow. Blow forth into that narrow space caught within the past. Both horror and delight. Your sleep will take you from this safe refuge to return finally only to yourself. The current drift of that barque, now empty, that you once called you. Slowly down to the river’s mouth. Slowly on through towards the end of time. Your lifeless eyes surrendered unconditionally to the endless blue of heavens long desired above.
(John Dowland – “Dear If You Change”)
This world is now created by metrosexuals. Self-righteous techno-Hottentots. Wrapped up in their own complacency and completely uninterested in who will rule them, for how long, or how in the further they will fall out of favor. The past is their oyster! Their personal whipping boy? The lodestone that washes clean their own sins of inaction for all those things they thought of but never thought to do. The Past. The foundation that they build their temples of disdain upon. Of ancient eras that were hard fought and rife with mounds of skulls of the defeated with grave flaws where everyone could not be happy. Or ever, ever was!
The whipping post upon which to hitch their slavish sense of the modern and virtue signal by wrinkling their noses at the stench of inequity. The safest home for the growth of monumental hypocrisy within all those myriads of complacent minds. The lies that lay upon lies that lay upon the present built upon convenience and toys. Convenient forms of rule to slowly incrementally abrade the feint-hearted who like to rail and rave from afar. Easy ducks for the self-proclaimed immortals to shoot later when the water barrels are brought out to be drained. And a normal life costs two times two time two what it does at this very hour in falsehoods of continual compounded interest. All to sit upon the ruins of one’s own land? The bridges freely replaced by toll booths and everything now taken away. Everything that has a cost and that must be paid in cash or blood or flesh. Whose neck is next? The laziest of creatures black and brown and mealy white turned yellow replaced by mandate. To enforce through fatal decrees of half-truths their own destruction in a moment anything that is simply considered ‘right‘.
You cannot be racist if you are no longer afforded a race. The only homeland that these citizens of longstanding seem to now be accorded is the grave. And even that will be plowed under. This is not considered racist because the official word from the squawk box of those loaded into government by grift and graft these last decades is guided by a foreign hand. This is the reward for all your lives of futility and hope of promises fulfilled. Your great grandchildren will be as fertilizer and fodder in the municipal dump. Still you are not foolish enough to get mad and angrily survive? The real race is that race to get as much as one can by getting their first. The rest is but the same sad lodestone of the accumulation of self-righteousness for idiots to carry around for the fiction of guilt that brought the razor to their own necks but that was never theirs. Only clever rivals. They deserve to be disappeared for they are truly the biggest of fools!
There is no greater wellspring of regret than in long lost desire for love once again reawakened. The rejection of that false promise that one has made a pact with to have one’s way or die. So who is pretentious now? The sore hollow fool that will follow through for a score of moments this scripted scenario of eternal failure? This game of finding regret by what one has not done rather than simply re-enacting the fable of what one should have known better so much longer than long ago? The accumulation of first impressions that still remain stacked up against one like a house of cards. If fools there be that run this world then you are both their dean and their teacher! To be mad in lust with someone so much so that you hate them for their sanity in staying clear. Volcanic soil undisturbed by soiled footprints of the commonality of reason in unconsciously recalling events locked within. Imprisoned in their own way that they never are allowed to become the primary cause of one’s own life of farce and folly. To sully the ivory and gold of what they once took in for a golden moment in ions long ago and try to pick away and chip the jewels from their mountings it like a thief. Boxcars undulating on steel rails overloaded moving ever slower now as the train nears the final station. So many players now long and permanently gone. Fallen away by the wayside into histories dust of what once was and never could have ever been. Overlapping dramas repetitively announcing that same old singular story of have and have not. How pathetically frail is one at their core to turn to lead every golden memory that one has touched. To make villains out of all those that one had once long ago had thought they had known. And then blame them for not one’s self having known better.