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.
[Excerpt – “Stain’s Willing Executioners] “We were amazed by what we had least expected to encounter among the Jews: cruelty, sadism, and violence had seemed alien to a nation so far removed from physical, warlike activity; those who yesterday did not know how to use a gun are now found among the executioners and cutthroats.”
In another instance, a “formerly oppressed lover of liberty had turned into a tyrant of ‘unheard-of despotic arbitrariness.’” He had been “transformed outwardly into a leather-clad person with a revolver and, in fact, lost all human likeness.” He could now be pictured as “standing in a Cheka basement doing ‘bloody but honorable revolutionary work.”
When, and if, the occasional off-planet travelers ever return to earth over the next few thousands and find it deposed to a smoldering rubble heap they will shake their heads in the own appropriate manner according to their species and disparaging mumble in a wistful tone, “Fucking Jews!” For if there was a trophy (outside of the yearly Oscars) for the most virulent all-consuming life destroying force this dubious honor would have to go to the entire tribe of those post-Babylonian sycophants that have seemingly plagued this world from the beginning of the recorded history of mankind? Check your Noah Kramer for the most correct Sumerian cuneiform translation on that count. Not a race or a religion but an ongoing organized virus-like cult that replicates based on all the redoubtable dialectic virtues of Yohanan ben Zakkai and the classic definition of the full compliment of all the seven deadly sins. And of course a mentality of overwhelming psychopathic disregard for any and all humanity outside their own cabal (as fueled by a persistent artificially created mental aura of perpetual victim and the most beloved little darlings of Jehovah). Their greatest art being artifice in perpetual practice in pretend and the conspiratorial ploys of self-aggrandizement that this seemingly genetic talent will garner. They will reliably destroy and debase any host society from the inside out that ever is so foolish to allow them entry. Conscientiously gerrymandering all commerce and turning it against those indigenous naturalized positive forces that work through industry, trading, maintaining morality of that society for the general good.
And, as always, maintain a disguise that has been so well-practiced over the centuries that ever suggests total innocence of their constantly egregious behavior. The unending deception behind seemingly sympathetic smiles that are directed towards their victims. Lice that swarm every opportunity to inflate their own prosperity as with controlling all markets through compound interest and fiat currencies. While at the same time insuring a corresponding demolition of the hopes and dreams of those who were too foolish to begin with to trust them. Akin in so many was to the Ophiocordyceps fungus that infects the ant kingdom in the Amazon that causes them to become self-destructive zombies. So much like the current false flag plagued culture that infects and quickly ruptures any possibility of common sense survival by way of instilling obtuse inverted obsessive fantasy for fact. Hollywood and the spreading cancer of a fibrous world-wide network pretending to be journalism. All tendrils emanating from it being a subset of the tumor that continues munching on the host until culture has been completely invalidated and then finally consumed. The consistency of this group based dynamic throughout the centuries in history evidencing a continued behavioral paroxysm by this tribe who tend to metaphorically take on the characteristics of an iceberg. It’s major activities ever out of sight laying just beneath the surface ready to tear the bottom out of everything that it approaches too closely.
Another new year saddled with the seemingly ever worse ever-growing list of inextricable self-destructive situations hanging over the head of the citizen’s of this nation? If this current expository harangue seems strong on ire but short on substantive excuses then I summon the fact that so many in other lands speaking different tongues from every era previous to this one has at one point or another raised their voices into a chorus of an equally exasperated tone. Though the documentary factual evidence of same available on sources like the current ‘world wide (spider)web’ seems to have ‘all of a sudden’ disappeared like a Louis Carroll styled pernicious cat then consider the current state of modern discourse. A highly controlled and ever-tampered with medium of centralized control by trillionaire elites that most often than not redirects all inquiry on these topics both pro and con to the exact same location fielding self-congratulatory dogmas that completely deny or totally avoid the subject. Amazing isn’t it how the words ‘Anti-Semite’, ‘Hitler’, and of course ‘The Holocaust’ can be applied to a multitude of so many topics both past and present? The cult’s practical ongoing ‘anschluss’ treadles heavily over the last century in their collectively being involved and instrumental in the genocide of hundreds of millions around the globe through such self-proclaimed ‘isms’ (Socialism, Capitalism, Communism, Zionism). Yet having the knack to focus popular sentiment of those caught within their grasp. Diverting what should have been unalterable indignation into guilt-ridden persistent empathetic sympathies with the perpetrators and lambasting the victims. And then those old well-practiced schemes of monetary illusionary wealth management when handed the keys of kingdom to them eventually over their former clients then as victims of their ever expanding tyrannies all with a merciless iron fist. The rage and frustration of these beset populous being conveniently diverted through the faux fictions of their own media monopolies to fictitious straw men. All while using these purloined sentiments and resources to aid in the demise of other groups and cultures that are currently in their sights for similar dismantling and disposal.
For those who claim to be totally unaffected by this perpetual syndrome over many generations that their emotions may now be boiling over in the manner of an overheated kettle at such ‘specious’ claims, let me offer a proposition that the cream that ‘soaks’ the current soggy crust of American society is an exclusively Jewish enterprise proven by both name and personal biography. The ‘evil rich’ elements of today diminishing the poor of he land being members of their own tribal one percent. And in so many cases, time and again, flaunt their openly divided loyalties that are adverse to the public trust through continual involvement in plundering the host. Had there not been implicit collusion through graft and corruption by those who pretend leadership of this country there might not be an insurmountable ongoing continuum of external insoluble situations directly affecting a growing internal dysfunction ? Would this country have in the distant past descended into a continental civil war whose ancestors became involved an unnecessary self-defeating regional conflict? Overseas adventures in genocidal colonizing regions on the other end of the globe in order to foster the aims of international business cartels? An endless series of costly self-defeating wars playing a brain dead ‘Robocop’ within the perpetually contentious Middle East? And the fall into complete moral decay and decadence that constantly denigrates any fervor for national spirit or loyalty owed to this land?
Are not these current times any different from previous eras where the use of antagonistic floods of immigrants from cultures completely foreign to this one as human wrecking balls to affect a conquest over the land? Those ever orchestrating the situation from behind the scenes both domestically and overseas being ruthlessly covetous of greater and greater power. Exercising their pernicious influence directly through the very Liberal spilling of all blood beyond their own! The current maleficent flavor of the same transgressions caried out over the years now traveling within the smoke screen of ‘Political Correctness‘. An all too sympathetic corollary to the same being in current headlines to Portnoy’s Complaint by one Phillip Roth(schild?). That 1970’s self-expository psychological driven fictional ‘BruHaHa’ perfectly exhibiting the current endemic self-flagellatory nature ‘ala a Harvey’. The underlying long desired goal of the complete despoiling of Western culture as vicious revenge for the destruction of a two-thousand year old fictitious fantasy temple straight from their own ‘Pentatuch-based institutional myths. One that lead to a eternally contentious Talmudic mentality espousing the wholesale destruction of others. Something inline with the ultimate goal as defined by their own internal hierarchy of ‘chosen ones’ to offer constant human sacrifices to an invisible eternally vindictive god. The ultimate prize of being able to capture and despoil the women of all their adversaries ending any further possibility of the further spread of their enemies’ seed. That barren fruitless deceitful dogma called Feminism having been the most preferred instrument for a complete extinction of the Aryan male.
The Little Foxes. The old cinematic advent of a coming war forties melodrama of that same predatory persistent Jewish nature as being the default of the definition of ‘Jew’, made by Jews, specifically with the conscious foreknowledge by loose affiliations with others of their kind in an industry working in consort for the success of mutually beneficial strategies to ultimately topple the Goyim through displacing their default societal point of view with another well-crafted artifice. Despite the obviousness of the outrageous demonstrations of the central characters within this ritual drama of demonstrated perfidy, artfully controlling the message to turn the essential nature of the host culture audience against its own best natural instincts. Selling in the most simplistic terms a completely artificial worldview to the Goyish suckers to wear like any cheap flashy virtue signalling suit. Convincing them with a cinematic panache that these projected cardboard moralities upon the screen are naught but their very own! An objective comment made so many times by external critics over the years that all things projected as ‘American’ were never from the ‘native’ but simply fabricated in the middle of the last century within the persistent mentalities of cheap lower East side neighborhood sweat shops by radical Socialists Hell-bent on overturning the entire White European world. The outward polished brass plate of theatrical superiority masking a supposedly more sophisticated intrigue that hangs over all like some heavy dose of Oriental incense.
The ‘golden epoch’ of misappropriated modern sound based film driven home hard much like that strictly Jewish Science of psychology. Essentially a series of carnival roadshows coming to town offering merely new iterations of the same old crooked penny arcades. Each fraught with malignant unconscious symbolism’s that counterpoints superficially trivial entertaining dialogue within sardonic dramas designed specifically to provoke internal social strife (read Freud’s many self-confessionals of persistent angry anti-Goyim fervor). The pillars supporting all these consecutive tales up to the present times built one way or another on the habitual referencing that slippery concept of race. One that their own dissolute doctrines prolonged as the only fit conversation acceptable over many centuries through a persistent practice of cutthroat commerce that always involved the enslavement through economics and ultimately by force. The embezzlement of a fictitious homeland and base of operations through two pre-planned world wars a halcyon goal of this irredeemable perniciousness.
The fatal dive through the window from the apartment through the glass. After being a snipe and being able to shoot like Clint Eastwood for miles. I hit the target. But I went home from the park and went up to the third floor. And instead of trying to impress the scoffers I dived through the window down onto the small assembly of cooking tables. And my mother made a meal for the three of us made of leaves. At first it was a strange plate with little porcelain underpants. She mad a meal of vines and leaves that we all sat around the table to eat. Some strange food. Some food that only gods could eat.
It had started out in the city. And the city was somehow under attack. And the buildings were collapsing. I ran into a store. A department store. We all ran intuit he back where the columns were the thickest. Without any real hope of being saved. And yet! We we joined up with a small . . . The guy that had a funny car that sat three. Sort of a hillbilly type of guy. And he was ambivalent about me, I know that! He didn’t know whiter to trust me or not. And he brought me back to his little group. And they were and odd eclectic bunch too! And in the end they spouted all sorts of crazy rituals. Little eccentric types of things that they felt the need to do. But they could tell that I . . . uh. . . wasn’t part of them. The found reasons why I wasn’t and expelled me of course until they got attacked. And one of their own went to the park and I was able to show my worth by handling a rifle. And I was a very good at it like Clint Eastwood. But in the end, I tool the dive from Elk Grove, at the old apartment, down through the glass.
Let down, the Norwegian and Dutch ‘bourmay‘. Some ancient people comes to mind, comes to tongue. Hiring as many architects as they could. Having them work on as many tables as they could find. The old house. Remapping the bloody footprint. Recomposing it. Firing old Bryan along the way. Setting him out on his own.
Rocky and chain drive steamships from the turn of the last century. Of before the beginning of the last century, I should say? Supposedly there were four or five types that ran by some sort of mechanism along the keel to power the steamship. In addition to paddle wheels of course. There was a young boy and he was bullied. He wanted to join the championship for boxing. He ended up being hazed by his main opponent. But he wouldn’t fight. His coach told him to wait. And there in the ring you could box and do what you need to do.
Where I was given a whole bunch of stuff that I had that was old. I wanted to plug a light in and Donald Trump stuck his head in the door and very securely plugged in the UHF connector to the wall there and was going to hook up a radio. Inadvertently a work light was hooked up there instead. Then I was driving all the way out into the ‘boonies‘ into the southern part of Chicago. And I got to this one place that was an animal pound or a prison pound? And I went there and they had all these cats and dogs that could talk to each other. They were hiding behind a little metal screen. And every time I would come close they would shut up. Every time I would move away I could hear them. Again, there is an issue of compression. In any case, I went back and forth with that a couple of times and finally went out to get my car and went driving. I found that I drove a long distance and a long way because it was all walled off and fenced off along I-57 or somewhere? A really massive,massive cooperate property filled with very large buildings. So what I had to do was drive back over this funny asphalt to be able to get back to the intersection to find my way back to the West and then back up north.
Two gate keepers. One with a mean angry dog that I managed to get by and talk to. A black guy curled up naked. When I bumped his balls accidentally he thought I wanted to give him a kiss. But my body language told him that he was wrong. And I and my fellows left and went about our business of finding out what we needed to find out. And the other gatekeeper behind the door. He had information. He pretended like he was reading the newspaper. All the rest of them did too. They were part of a gang. They sat there waiting for trouble. But I wasn’t trouble. They went back to the newspapers.
My father was a sharper working with outfits wildcatting with the CIA and other big governmental organizations. And he was on station somewhere and they invited me out. They had these little shacks and these little small business shacks to live in. But they had to move to another one. So we were all in there together like a bunch of guys dressed suit and tie. This one had an underground ‘just below the surface‘ type of room. You had to walk down a set of stairs and that’s where you lived. My client ended up trying to find a painting for him or for somebody else. And of course I could get the rights but I found I could get the painting so I called up. And it turned out that he was ‘the guy’ so he had two phones so he was the guy who really wanted it. He was brokering it so stopped the car in front because I was on the cell phone. He had a little small type of agency. So he came to the door with two phones and handed me a couple. And of course I had to talk my way through that. So it was like conducting business in both cases.
Grief counseling in the high fashion of terror art by the most post-modern artist of the era. Everyone so erudite, and so sophisticated! Virtue signaling with little objects in their hands carved to brilliance by the artist’s designates offering amazingly trite details. Oh what a wonderful thing darling to have in your possession. To show just how intelligent refined and smart you are!
I was attending a university art class all around a very big table. There were all sorts of things there and around it. And there were assemblages from different types of odds and ends. Paper and gauze and chrome foil and all these other things. There were all these young gals and I was the oldest guy there of course. Many years past them. We’re all having a good time and when it comes up to the end I sit there and uh . . . because we don’t have much time to get out and bring stuff back to other departments I help put everybody’s stuff together and so on and so forth. A couple of the girls like me. And of course all the young boys are jealous. Everyone else is there and I am joking with two that ask me how old I am. And I say, “If you love me you won’t ask!” (they laugh) Another one says something where we are camping it up to the nines as far as being shamelessly involved. Of course, this is all bullshit! How cute!
So I am in this high tone airport in Zurich or something. Saudi Arabia of some place, And there are all these very very important performance oriented people that are attest people. One in particular who has got accolades in all the great arts. He’s got an exhibition of his work in the airport gallery. Of course, times running down and I am supposed to be going to take a plane but I go there anyhow and wander over. I look around and there’s all sorts of people there that are ‘rubbing brass‘ that are virtue signaling. What ever all that stuff? They’re buying that stuff. One guy says, “Look, I got some stupid looking thing for eighty bucks!” It’s totally useless made out of wood and all sorts of other crap. Really silly kind of stuff. And the artist is there and what can I say? So I end up, I pick one two and I get on the plane. They wrap it. It’s full of all sorts of gizmo’s and gadgets in the box. I go to get on my plane and at one point consider getting a faux guitar but I am glad that I don’t have to sit there with it on my lap for umpteen hours. But there is no where else to put it on the plane! Oh yeah!
I found myself traveling through one of those out of the way places that one would not normally think to venture into. A section far off on the periphery of the largest of cities of the land. That fabled far off land of the very wealthy. A place over-filled with natural foliage bereft of the normal wide highways that might disturb this luxuriant cover left standing since time immemorial. Somewhere upon its border, or perhaps,centered within its midst lay a small quaint village. Two lane streets subtending a somber grid of small elegant shops the spokes of narrow lanes connecting somewhere beyond to large tree cloistered magnificent estates. Their owners being those who one could surmise from the understated aura of understated magnificence were of that very class of mankind which secretly conducted the affairs of governance of the entire land. Their enigmatic shadowy presences whispered to one from everywhere. The men and women from longstanding family lines that were unofficially proclaimed as the foundation of interests influencing all national and international leaders from afar. Those well-publicized puppets who served as little more than a cardboard public mask for these anonymous entities. That class seeming to exist exclusively outside the reach of laws levied over conventional men many steps farther down the food chain like myself. Of course, I not knowing this till much farther along in this tale!
This town that I had wandered within the borders of seemed innocuous enough in a manner that looked farther back into the boundaries of a century before the last. Though any sight of a modern convenience would be found evident to a wandering glance as being in its most advanced modern form, the overshadowing motif was significant of a time before such conveniences existed. Convention being in the form and structure of something resembling a nineteenth century perspective of ‘genteel‘. The people that inhabited this environment being overtly formal to the point of a tyranny of well-studied politeness driven relentlessly from within a highly-refined framework of enforced silence. The mental pressure of existing betwixt so many time-honored estates in close surround suggesting that this town was merely a convenient conveyance for supply of material wants and services. It was easy to spot any interloper, such as myself, as being completely out of step in both tenor and temperament of those residents of this hamlet that served uncompromisingly with expected rigor of grace to the whims of the ‘phantom‘ presences surrounding. I might have felt immediately put off to immediately depart such a drafty mental climate? But for some odd reason attributed to a quest for unfamiliar vicinage, this locale seemed the proper cushion to accede to a latent desire within for complete solitude. I sought out a room to rent. There was no exact reason provided in this process, which in hindsight, evaded memory. But rather a simple desire to be able to find any suitable establishment handy within this town in which to harbor. After politely being informed that there were none to be had in town I was directed to seek the same at one of the estates that much to my surprise offered lodgings to wanderers like myself. I assume that I must have been considered circumspect and not too low born in mannerisms or appearance to be a common vagrant? Though I considered myself as significant enough in portraying a particular class mistaken as a possible academic or professional itinerant wordsmith. I was immediately advanced to my hosts as duly qualified to apply.
And so I found myself standing far past the enclosure subtended by a tall iron gate now far down its accompany winding road before the expansive edifice. The structure seeming antediluvian in scale at four stories plus of long rows of large window studded lining an ornate fixture acquitted hall of ancient limestone. The assemblage of which that was by any standard on an equal level with a full-blown palace far across the ocean to the East. As if by some hidden pre-scheduled itinerary, I was promptly escorted within, quickly vetted, confirmed and tacitly accepted, then directed as a humble lodger to my quarters. Though no instructions were given beyond those assumed by the natural diffident aura of inflexible propriety, I took it as an underlying proviso that I should refrain from exploring the entirety of the mansion. The limits of my world to be specific to my designated chamber and egress to nearby plumbing and back stairwells to exist through the structures side. As such, it was inferred that my station was limited, no doubt even beneath the station of its ruling staff of servants. Though nothing along those lines was ever advanced as a precondition. After all, with what I supposed to be at least twenty or more bedrooms within it was likely that I would be assigned would be a diminutive accommodation in a lesser corner of servant quarters that would not disturb the decorum of the house’s daily activity. Especially if I took the hint to refrain from any physical reconnaissance of the premises beyond that which was initially made familiar with. Every part of these initial transaction concerning my lodging becoming immediately unmemorable but second nature on my part.
It was late afternoon with my valise stowed as the room that was to be my own was supposedly still in a state of preparation, I felt confident enough to take a stroll around the circumference of the estate. Something to bide the time and seek a little private solitude beyond its all too commanding interior. I made sure to travel further back and around parallel to the far boundary wall that separated the grounds of the house proper from that of the larger estate. Many acres of an unruly sprawling wilderness dissuading any inclination to breach these immediate precincts. The tall stone barrier lay broken in several sections and it would have been easy to climb over its low parapet to scatter into the adjoining forest. Yet, some impulse restrained this urge within and I elected to follow along inside this barrier to its ultimate conclusion at the back of the property. The end of the gap produced a reinstated wall that served as a backstop for a tall heavy steel rack supporting narrow slabs of fresh cut granite. A paper sign tacked at eye level in regular handwriting advising all to refrain from purloining any of it. The path beyond now narrowed with further racks tall with small statuary. Busts of some indefinable personage that might as well grace the cornice of a church as the top of a cemetery monument. There were two categories in evidence within the rank and file of multiple racks that ranged up some ten feet from the ground. One being a conventional head and shoulders portrait of what might have been mistaken as the standard classic portrayal of a taciturn Mozart figure. The other set taking up an equal amount of space beside the first on each tray a more sinuous portrayal that seemed to plumb deep inward exposing eviscerated muscle groups. But still maintaining the general sense of proportion and likeness approximating the other. The first example might have been evident of a long series of virtuoso exercises in sculpting raw marble. The other structurally devitalized type just adjacent molded in high enamel glass significant of Italian terracotta enameled in heavy white glaze. Odd little things if one were to consider the amount of time and art to make each one in the two respective sets so perfectly match every other?
Just beyond stood an even more imposing display of a single bas relief of a similar personage once again in white. The singular object seeming a circular disk supporting the same likeness as the other phalanxes of statuary over which this towered. A tarp hanging loosely around it’s upper sloping edge as if haphazardly revealed to the elements in haste. The estate’s inner wall coming to an abrupt conclusion signaled by a right angle deviation of stone and mortar to the left. The sensation of being within an open air workshop of some immensely well-funded personality within the lofty height of the art world striking one at the sight of a greenhouse-like organization of similar artifacts that bore the imprint of the same imagination. It was if this section of the universe had been denoted as a workhouse to create effigies of a notable yet publicly unrecognized deity that could have equally hailed from a distant past? Or possibly of a future that as of yet had not been introduced? Farther down one of the aisles an artist smock clad figure busily pandered about. His actions more reminiscent of creator cast as worker bee preparing some key resource for the benefit of the larger hive. The immediate reaction was to carefully retread my own steps so as not to be accuse of having imposed upon one of the house regulars. Something within subtly suggesting that while my immediate presence might have been peripherally detected, it was of no consequence. The sensation coursing through me of being an undistinguished Ulysses traipsing about beneath consideration within the cave of the Cyclops.
Magic hour was at hand giving way to a sinister dusk and my trip back along the path was now lit with festive strings of lights lining the approach to the mansion giving off a warm lightning bug glow . The overall impression being that even the vicinity of this lesser service corridor some overflowing special occasion would be hosted. It was easy to feel akin to some form of beetle or gnat compelled to hurry its step so as not to be caught in plain sight in the shadow of approaching overbearing giants. The inner portion of the lower level’s side hallway where I had earlier found egress was already a buzz from a social gathering. Distant voices and strange musical going on’s were emanating from what appeared to be a linear series of entrances to a lower auditorium. Random guests, one or two at a time, pacing imperiously past in high-spirited regalia of well-tailored outfits. The odd patterns stitched in classic eighteenth century designs suggesting a nineteen-sixties ‘Mod’ version of traditional court clothing of a Louis the XIV. Glances by these expectant revelers were conspicuously averted to any but the general direction of my travel. This cloak of civil invisibility suggesting the inconvenience that a lesser presence being completely out of character dressed in mortal street dress would be avoided at all costs. Lest it’s conventionality spoil the unique dynamic of this evening’s prospective series of unspecified events. A cold feeling of refracted malice grew like a hair ball in the pit of my stomach. Not having a hint as to the proper direction to take through this massive maze of oak and mahogany my mind was at a total loss as to how I might might outsmart providing further embarrassment. Not fit solution coming easily to mind as how to seek out my intended quarters without causing further interruption to the arriving guests.
The approach at the end of the corridor made a sharp right turn towards what was likely some sort of main entrance. Lodged in the wainscoting near its right angle was the outline of an entrance offering what appeared to be a small room. Its door now being slightly ajar an seeming the most logical way station in which to weather the coming evening in avoidance of whatever strange ceremonial occasion to be conducted without. The inside contained only a few sticks of utilitarian furniture suggesting a generic accommodation. One possibly for a the convenience of providing a footman or other ready servant needed for immediate call late at night. Though dimly lit from outside it seemed apparent that it was presently unoccupied by the fact that its four poster bed was made up in a pristine manner evidently gone long undisturbed. I sat down on the bed facing the corridor watching the commotion of shadows regularly passing by the gap of the bottom of the door. A raucous commotion of grunts and groaning voices in occasional forms of strange tongues that the closed door keep unintelligible to the ear. Whatever their context I that uneasy feeling within seemed to grow progressively that my inadvertent trespass might lead to some form of dire penalty if I reappeared in their midst. I sat there for many minutes far removed in stillness listening to my own heart’s beat pulsate through my breastbone. The door opened and a hand preceded the flood of light that the bright corridor cast into the room illuminating the floor just beyond. The figure walked swiftly past not looking in my direction but directly to a passage door in the wall just across from the foot of the bed. Whether or not this personage had detected my stalwart silent presence seemed completely immaterial. I might as well have been some accessory stick of furniture as much as a sufficiently well-cowed gate crasher to his sensibilities. Two doors now left ajar I continued to sit upright and immobile under the advisement of an instinctual notion that it was better to remain thus and be left alone to my own devises by any member of the wildly cavorting throng in full gavotte just outside.
Perhaps the mental exhaustion of it all and the strain of sitting at attention remaining motions took it toll. I had lost track of time and found myself lying upon the bed head pointed south at its foot. The celebrations had de-evolved into what seemed to be an exercise in hide and seek with an occasional figure darting into the entrance of each doorway then turning away as if abruptly surprised by their sought after companion’s immediate presence appearing just behind them. My eyes now in full focus at the canopy’s ceiling subtended by its surrounding ruffle I felt my face nakedly exposed to view. A flicker of the eye upward and to the side revealing the slow progress of another face floating forward coming over me like a dark cloud. It was a rude combination of unruly male locks dripping wetly with exertion garnishing the weathered face of what could be best described as a profligate continence devastated by too many years of debauchery. The shoulders attached that came into view attired in a frock coat that seemed confused by its camouflage pattern of iridescent pastels. Had I been looking straight into the eyes of a King cobra, I could not have felt more ill at ease. The damnable presence hovered just above my own as if contemplating how to strike. What sort of weapon it would employ as to a blow or more probably a kiss. I could not imagine a more ignoble fate than to have this creatures venom in residue within my mouth. I started with an animal snarl. My words spit back in tightly whispered syllable sternly warning this Xanthippe in no uncertain terms that a limit had been reached and that I was no longer ready to cower from his presence as I had from the throng of his fellows that night. The fiendish continence seemed to float back and away and now out of reach I rolled back up into a sitting position. The shadow following it departing speedily out through the passage that it had crept from.
My eyes then awoke into the glare of bright morning Sun. Though it had seemed that the gap in my perception was but an instant I found to my surprise that not only had the night had long passed but that I was transitioned into a completely different quarter of the house. An impression format he corner of my eye of the tops of tall trees below just outside the reveal of a long bank of windows of a new room. A gloriously appointed place that suggested a carefully considered homeyness that might be accorded only to a close relative or honored guest. My confusion was furthered along by the immediate presence of several servants who initially bustled up to the bed to verify that I was again fully awake. I heard one of them remark in a formal tone addressing another more jovial ‘roly-poly‘ gentleman dressed in the dress down of ruffled shirt and striped vest. The immediate impression of him suggesting a character escaped from the concluding pages of a happily ended Charles Dicken’s novel! The gravity of the servant’s offered conversation ending with the preface of, “m’lord“, and then followed by a, “Sir Edward.” I felt at a total loss at this unexpected introduction to my landlord and patron. Though older in appearance yet spry as a youngster he seemed to bound over pushing his way past his domestics to hop up upon the bed with me like a callow puppy. Peering into my eyes as one might to a reinvigorated invalid with a joviality that might have put Santa Claus he merrily asked, “And how are we feeling today, my boy?” The disparity of the night’s previous events still far beyond anything that could be tossed off as a bad dream I stared back quizzically unable to formulate a fit answer beyond silently reciting to myself, “Just what in the Hell have I gotten myself into?”
He found the little girl pleasant for her age. “Not a crier thank god!” There seemed nothing unordinary about her save that she disappeared before his eyes one day as if she were a badger into a hole in the gowned. Had he not experienced it in full view before him he would have had to say it was merely a spontaneous hallucination. Yet the girl had past a moment or more in his company. And that could not be denied lest he deny his own sanity. Whether his brain was engaging in an active form of metaphor was up to discussion? He saw what he saw. The immediate question at had was what did these event work out to? Some form of everyday play? Or a situation with more gravity where life that had yet to mature was enigmatically aborted for reasons that were beyond his ability to comprehend. “No.“, she was not a crier! The fissure in the ground at his feet that she had darted into seemed barely three inches in width. It’s length spanning a couple of feet. in the other direction. How deep it ran intuit he ground was something of a secret that he did not feel inclined to plumb. In a flicker of an eyelid she was there. Then a blur of a couple of frames and the bare imprint of her disappearing thusly. How odd his mind kept protesting like an echo un-suppressed in its desire to find find as many unseen passageways within the halls of his thought to seek solution to this mystery as soon as possible. So disturbing was it in its mild form that he felt inclined to remain standing there without thought of moving forth from the same position that the event had caught him in. A mental lag of moments.
He may have been waiting for a sound. But there was none. “What would her parents think?“, mused to himself in silence. Would anyone believe his explanation of her disappearance? Would this explain anything when those in authority of their commonly understood senses asserted the impossibility of this action? And then begin to lean upon his own life to ask questions that he found impossible to respond to rationally? Where would this lead him to? Especially when the little girl was officially considered missing? Maybe a jail sentence and the ire of the community outing him for the balance of the duration of his earthly existence? A miserable thought indeed? Still it irked him that the freeze frame of her departure underground compelled him to seek sanity in the attempt to approach someone and relate what he had experienced. That was normal. You had to report such things to the authorities or you yourself were and accessory to the event. That was just the way things were in society. The sentiments of the parents had to be taken into account. They must know the whereabouts of their child! Or at least the vicinity of the last sight of her. Still in his mind this did not add up. It was all an impossibility that logically could not be explained much less really understood.
His rewound the tape of his own existence backwards without the benefit of the analogous mechanical squeal. “How did he know her?“, he thought to himself interrogating his jumble of thoughts. She seemed as familiar as family. She might have been his niece had he had a sister? She might have been the child of his friends, if he had any friends? She might have been the dependent of a neighbor? But then he knew so little about life behind that counterpoised series of doors along the hallway that he traversed from his apartment to the elevator. Her presence in his life did not nag him as if she should not be remembered to some failure of his recollection. His familiarity with her was beyond question. She was not his own daughter. Though considering the joyful innocence of childhood that she portrayed he would have found pleasure in having sired such a wonderful little soul. Whatever the import of the event that now began to grow stale in his mind he knew that his role as witness was the issue. Though the first thing others would ask he knew would be his relationship to the little girl as to if she was a stranger or not? How odd?
It was reasonable of course to suggest that in the extended family of human existence there was alway a common thread to lead one to an implicit association. The inference of reasonable behavior suggesting that, “like it or not!“, one was responsible for their fellow human being. The measure of one’s worth in general was measured by their regard for others and the willingness to take action on their behalf. There were extenuating circumstances of course. It was always a battle of rational judgement versus the emotions of the moment to plunge forth into the boiling waters of a stormy sea to save those drowning. Most likely resulting in a second corpse lost to the waters when the addition was tallied. A self-defeating proposition that would be agonized over by all with every recrimination in place to reverberate with the counter arguments of the rationale of self-survival. “What an odd situation?“, a chiming sound uncharacteristically interrupting his thoughts tolling from within. “What an odd situation?“, it tolled again. “How can reconcile the absurd?”, it struck him. The impossibility of such an event being so clear to the waking world but not so in the world of dreams. “Was he dreaming?“, he wondered. that would explain everything. “Well, almost?“, the next thought bumping into the first int he next breath.
If he were indeed asleep then the question of the veracity of the incident was not demoted in importance to another query. The larger more expansive inquiry of meaning as it related to him in specific. What this vision some form of mirror of conventional reality. The reprise of an incident that seemed trivial in passing? But now having been in revue deep down upon the shores of his own personal river Styx had blossomed into a more seismic event of a deep dark hidden meaning? So startling seemed this occurrence that it was hard to find it nothing less than the seed of a prophecy relating to him that begged to be heeded with some gravity. Something serious that his inner playground was warning him about? “Was his world so peaceful after all?” “Was the outside world outside him that rested under the light of the Sun capable of the constancy of blissful regular existence?” Of was it a cauldron of incongruous encounters that one by necessity had to take for granted until overt signs hailed the danger? Many times too late nod after the fact. The dreamy part being one’s constant desire to resurrect their own sense of child-like dreaminess in the pressurized world of rationalized orderly external behavior. Behavior demanded that never seemed to suit the desires of that child within? The too becoming more and more incompatible as the years rolled along and those thing proposed as ‘rational’ buy that overbearing phantom know as society made less and less sense. What could one describe it as with this awareness but a reaction to phenomena?
The time seed to be ticking in his head as he made his first movement in what seemed the light of day. He was still standing there. Where ever ‘there’ seemed to be. He was not in his bed at dawn’s insistent break. He was just somewhere. Somewhere away from the familiar. A place like any place that a sailor might pass int he midst of a mighty ocean and never from that moment on be able to discern from any other place beyond a compass bearing scribbled in a log book at the positive declination of the sun at that time of day. Perhaps now he was casually walking on to some task that would disappear with all the other daily tasks, that once completed, were mentally discarded. Nothing resolved, of course. And now being once again in motion heading on to the next waypoint, nothing needing to be. The image of the girl being leaned up in the dusty closet of extraordinary recollections maybe one day to be recovered for more frivolous incidents as ammunition for making an impression in public discourse? The impact of the alacrity of the moment fully dissipated. That, after all, was life!
“The Reve Mal” It forever seem odd that of all mankind’s devices stories of one kind or another remain the most potent part of human existence. Not necessarily good stories or long familiar ones that have been repeated over and over so many times that they seem etched in the back of one’s brain. Stories that suggest an odd unexpected conclusion that border on the temporal quality of clever. Bundle them all up and you have the motivating force behind society begging along the way of course for it to include those of your own. Case in point of those fed to you by your unconscious in the collective realm of dreams. The current era being overwhelming leaving one a phantom padding about within their own personal museum of ultimate obsolescence. That adage of utilizing a fraction of brain capacity coming down in so many ways to a base level of time spent on contemplation.
“The house was filled with a collection of reptiles. The most notable being alligators and their crocodile cousins that congregated int he middle of the room snapping their jaws as one passes. It seemed a good time for a departure and my aged mother stood at the door to the hallway ready to exist down the short flight of stairs. I met her just outside and bundled her into the Lincoln Town Car onto the front seat. Then it seemed that her older sister also was in the back seat.”
At this point it is useful to stop to tell one and all that this is but simple illusion as it cannot be substantiated by any physicality in the current waking world. And as many have pointed out so plainly when one extrapolates under the bright Sun of midday. So many easy explanations existing presenting existential arguments defying that experience as if it was planted only within one’s head by a more earthly random experience. Yet from the insider perspective of within that single head that inspired it the waking world despite all its easy camaraderie cannot disprove it noting nothing more than a frequency of same. Offering only ones daily return to habit in believing that palpable reality need be proven by the simple fact of its continual intervals of repetition. This becoming a particular delirious dilemma for those types afflicted with an acute form of solitary aloneness that has not strict the convention easily at hand to derail it from being a positive belief.
Thus those afflicted went about their daily routine with a feeling that influenced their appreciation for the their immediate circumstances that could not be verified by actual experience. A distinct disadvantage in dealing with strangers and distant acquaintances, who of course were never privy to the eccentricities of the dreamer. How this all played out in the midst of so many faceless masses only a matter of importance to the one who experienced it. What weight could such a thing have in a sea of indifferent humanity? “For after all . . “, one might easily recite, “. . .what is one man’s opinion against the sea of the many?”
To consider the difference in the opinions of widely disparate eras forever seemingly obsessed with contrasting poverty with plenty it might be appropriate to reflect upon the differences of former times in terms of general popular attitudes. Those particular ones spotted in the from a distant past offering the promise of success gained by the experience of the amalgam of both experiences. Ones that surpass in blatant symbiosis the more contemporary ones which by comparison seem near to impossible to ever actually achieve. Freely available work almost on demand as livable wages for example. The talented being able to cut more favorable deals in terms of wages and benefits based on verbal performance. “Closer’s” versus “talker’s!” The newest most latest form of sensibility being to run general society like a meat packing house where nothing gets wasted despite any potential risk to the public health.
A more polite form of acknowledgement offered exclusively to those from other lands. As those with strange customs strangling the conventional experience of others considered indigenous. You’ll be solicited along the way by vague entities that routinely pass themselves off as just plain regular personable folk. The dreamy image posed in a few well-composed pictures set in a pleasing locale dressed in appropriately stylish outfits that are carefully configured to strike a positive chord with you as their prospective consumer and eventual targeted rival. The closet thing to this composite identifying label possibly being referred to as, “THE TEAM.” A very determined stratagem of lack of identity identifying that same old corporate firewall virtually protecting the company from any need for their accountability to customers for their services. Everyone and everything treated simply like a commodity.
NOTE: The following impressions and provisos were gleaned from a seminar held at the University of Chicago writer’s event covering the topic of promoting your work to get your book published. Three panels composed entirely of women, with the exception of one extremely ‘gyno-centric’ male, provided their own personal takes on the current publishing market. The viewpoints were exclusively focused on the liberal leaning market aesthetic behind the Chicago art scene. The percentage of males in attendance within the audience was on the level of ten to one. Much of the paraphrased ‘advice’ seen below was taken directly from the experiences shared and advice given by panelists.
RULES OF THE GLEACHER: Anything that is considered MALE and especially WHITE is most cursed by a mass hysterical reservation at this university seminar! Why is it that the more ‘Elitist’ and ‘Liberal’ any person might be, the more unfriendly if not absolutely hostile they become? If you want to have your books distributed and sold in the conventional literary market domestically or in the West then you had better have Jewish relatives and be a female obsessed with third wave feminism! Rich ones from the North Shore are even better! The panel announces the fact at the beginning of their segment that they are “the gatekeepers!” A prerequisite of any viable genre or subject matter that this block considers viable in the market place despoils men to the benefit of women. This ramps the stakes if that character is part of a sanctified ethnic minority that engages in deviant sexual practices within the Lesbian agenda. The presence of mind to use proper most currently correct terminology assiduously adhering to the latest set of up to the moment conventions or face the penalty of expulsion! Try the strategy of masking your elitist friendly patriotism serving the cause of floundering PR by offering a stilted counter story of a safe powerless minority that you can provide emotional bandaids to. That same tried and true SJW pattern of exhibiting virtue signaling ceremonies that though they don’t last long enough to have any effect in reality always look good in print. on the page. The bleeding heart Liberal tradition to whip the perpetually guilt assuaged tax paying population into a defensive mode so that they don’t scream foul when even more of their ever mounting tax dollars are extorted for the replenishment of of munitions within the Jewish Utopia of the ‘holely land’ or built yet another Holocaust memorial on American turf. That will make sure that the publishing houses which are almost all directly under control of these kissing cousins will look kindly on your next project.
SUGGESTED THEMES FOR SUCCESS: Make a modern version of a post-war melodrama that references the Holocaust in some form to stay in with the ‘in crowd’ or NYT best seller reviewable potential ‘best sellers’. Stick to the appropriate dual dialogue where all your more significant characters are women disgruntled with me to the point of taking all their power and life-force from them by the end of the last chapter. Cloak your text in classic nineteenth century terms from female authors like Jane Austin or at least more modern equivalents as with Virginia Wolf. Make sure to parallel the action of your characters to some current black studies/women studies approved national social justice issue that are currently entrancing the nation as a whole in further fruitless insoluble divisions. Make sure to denigrate European history or achievement by scenarios where the strew source of achievement is found to be a female or a select ethnic minority. Anything Afro-American Black is always good! Play softball when dealing in the land of the Goyim. Give no mention to any unique and enthralling qualities of characters of that description but find them lacking in courage and integrity at every turn. Remember that the term “gravity” refers to the great farmlands stocked with sleepy eyed suburban sheep! Don’t go too far beyond the well-established programs of educationally enforced guilt tripping that their children are daily indoctrinated with. Any unexpected criticism is to be absorbed and digested but not addressed!
TOPICS NOT TO BE ADDRESSED: Self-publishing is not to be given any legitimacy, period. This does not include any agent connected, contest driven, boutique enterprise that must treat equitably with the ‘legitimate’ publishing distributors who can impose rules similar to those already mentioned. Gynocentric, LGBT, race centered epics to be considered the most marketable and traditional mystery and science fiction tolerated to a reasonable degree as long as the thematics remain hostile to the male. Much like the stockyards of the century before, university trained authors are to be guided along int he process through the rigid system of query letters and infinite patience to be eventually contacted with approved agents and editors, preferably female. Any other demographic of those who write that have not gone through the university system are to be discredited. All hiring within publishing houses is to be geared specifically to this demographic. The most catastrophic situation that needs to be avoided is a Tsunami of ‘net neutral’ outlets or chains of interlocking networks that compete for dollars with the conventional system of big box retailers and specialty book distributors. All acceptable media must reflect the tenets of moral relativity while casting doubt on what was once considered conventional mainstream history! Make all authors feel that they need ‘permission’ to write! That they can only be creative when they have reached the point when they sense that they are ‘safe’ from any criticism or censure as if in their mother’s arms. Stress that ‘SUCCESS’ is only possible by following these proscribed limits.
EPILOGUE: My own demographic was understandably considered hostile within this assembly and my mere presence was met with a mutually observed ‘cold shoulder’ as if I was in the midst of crashing a woman oriented event. This being due not simply to my gender but my age and of course racial demographic. Considering the seismic shift currently underway in politics, entertainment and journalism the focus of publishing and the intellectual pretext that is vigorously supported by elite universities seems a form of institutional Seppuku. The arrogance of Globalist corporations in fostering and nursing this hostile position by exiling criticism, emptying the libraries of volumes embodying conflicting viewpoints, and promoting nonsensical positively schizophrenic politically correct dogmas will be met with a definitive backlash. In the authors opinion, not bloody soon enough!
VIDEO – https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KLr_5dQqxTk (Post seminar impressions)