Happy Thanksgiving Day and/or Week, Americans and others outside the South! Oftentimes, we have so much that gladly calls out for our thanks. I’m thankful for all of you, beloved readers, and much more. Sometimes it may not look like it, but we have other things to be thankful for—things that don’t call as loudly or as gladly. Yet we are well-advised to be thankful for whatever comes our way: “Always rejoice. Pray without ceasing. In all things give thanks; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus concerning you all. Extinguish not the Spirit. Despise not prophecies.” 1 Thessalonians: 16-20. The events of the past four or so years have clarified the division between the Good, the True, and the Beautiful and the Wicked, the False, and the Ugly in stark terms and high definition. And the delineation continues. As hard as it is to believe, all of this is beneficial. I will therefore frame today’s discussion of events in grateful terms. A Worthy Life and An Honorable MemoryRosalynn Carter died the other day at the age of 96. She, with her husband and independently, had a full and meaningful life. She was the only American First Lady I ever met, and her husband the only Chief Executive. In the late winter or early spring of 2003, President Carter delivered a speech to the hive of incompetence known as the Georgia General Assembly. I watched and listened from the balcony. While I found them interesting at the time, I simply cannot recall what his remarks involved. But by then, I had begun to change my opinion of Carter, discarding the stock GOP lies about his amateurish incapabilities. In my view, he was perhaps the last of the genuine American Presidents who loved America, a man thrust into a nearly impossible situation. He did the best he could in politics and life. Mrs. Rosalynn was an integral part of his many trials, tribulations, and successes. Just before the speech ended, I determined that if it was possible, then I wanted to meet Carter. I calculated that he entered and would exit the Gold Dome via the Governor’s secure entrance, a door which by various friendships I was acquainted with. I immediately made my way down, outside, and to that door. Soon thereafter, Jimmah and Rosalynn emerged with but a small escort of state troopers and secret service agents. With me being the only other person present, we three instantly gravitated together. It was like meeting a third set of grandparents. Perhaps due to the passage of time rather than genetics, the Carters were smaller people. Short in stature, but enormous in Christian, human warmth and generosity. Unlike most others of the political class I have had the misfortune of meeting, they simply exuded a good and decent aura. In purely Southern terms, they were just “sweet” people. Also, like a couple of walking, talking teddy bears, they were adorable. When our brief, happy exchange ended, I, delighted, was somewhat tempted to pick them both up and squeeze them. There was the matter of decorum and the presence of armed guards, so I let the notion die in conception. Now, one of my teddy bear friends is gone with it and I suspect—as is too often the case with 77-year(!) marriages—the other will too soon pass. It was, if I can correctly remember, a day gray but pleasant; I will forever be thankful for it. Bifurcated EconomicsPlease take the time to watch or listen to the following interview discussion between Michael Hudson, Alexander Mercouris, and Glenn Diesen: Hudson does most of the talking, in a way giving an abbreviated dissertation on many of his written works. While I am no fan of the age of post-literacy, I am thankful there are alternative means for reaching the postliterate should they dare to partake. This is one of them. Pay attention to how the divided world emerged, the financialized ruin of the West, the now obvious lies we’ve all been taught, China and Russia’s similar but still different approaches to handling the separation, and how any American Remnant might embrace a new practice comparable to the Sino-Russian model(s). For those trapped in the fog of the economic past, ever concerned about phantom chaos (as the real thing reigns around them) and the necessity of “legality,” pay extra attention to Xi’s dilemma concerning the banks and real estate and his likely simple solution. Breaking up and out is difficult, but not nearly as difficult or as damaging as staying down and in. A New Argentine ChapterAbout a year before I met the Carters, in one of my first published columns I pondered the monetary and economic turmoil in Argentina. That was the heyday of my conservative libertarianism, and, boy, did it show. While I got the gist of the currency and inflation issues right, I had to throw in a hearty exhortation of capitalism and freedom, and I even included a ubiquitous Adam Smith quote. In my defense, even as I had just experienced a wake-up call about the wickedness controlling America, I had yet to fully accept the differences between real capitalism and financialized fakery. My Smith quote was off because I (and he) had perhaps not fully comprehended what happens when public and private prodigality and misconduct meld together. I had also not accepted the extreme damage already done to America, which at the time, I thought was still salvageable. (I was young and idealistic!) But I did manage to correctly access large parts of the Argentine problem:
My title was a take on Julie Covington’s song “Don’t Cry For Me Argentina,” as re-popularized by Madonna Ciccone in 1996. I’m thankful I still have the ability to remember past tripe I’ve cobbled and that some of it still makes a modicum of sense! At the time, I had a vague idea of the changes needed to salvage the economy in Buenos Aires. Today, I think I have a better understanding. It’s difficult to apply the breaks and turn off anything when the situation is largely in nefarious international hands. Over two decades later, the South American nation is still in much the same shape it was in back then. It still has the burden of illicit debts. It still has yet to control its monetary base. It is still mired in postmodern neoliberal necromancy. The great question for 2024 and beyond is whether Javier Milei is the long-awaited answer. He, a talking mop head, is known to his supporters as “the Crazy.” So crazy he just might work? Time will tell. Many of his position statements sound interesting and good. Others sound mildly alarming. But statements are mere rhetoric and there is little evidence at this time to dialectically support any of them. He has also won praise from many of the wrong people. He is a self-styled libertarian and I’m not sure of any regional specifications for that label. In general, libertarianism is just smiley-faced globalism by and for stoners. I have grave doubts and would caution anyone about getting too excited. Still, we will keep alive the Spirit. The Hardest CallAs predicted by me some time ago, videos of dead and mutilated Ukrainian female soldiers are now available for viewing. I will not link to any and I do not advise seeking them out. But they exist. As we account for the probable one million-plus Ukrainian KIAs, we must now annotate in terms of men and women. Who knows what the total casualty count is and what it will be by the time Russia accepts Kiev’s unconditional surrender? What it all amounts to is a huge war crime, ethnic cleansing, and genocide. Via their usual machinations, the usual suspects have managed to depopulate Ukraine by over 50% since February of 2022, and 60% since the dissolution of the Soviet Union. The living demons in Brussels, London, and Washington will answer for their evil, on earth or beyond. For that, I am thankful.
Of course, they’re not finished yet. They won’t be until Moscow declares victory and installs a new government in the Clown’s failed Banderaite experiment. The new rumor is that Zelensky, the ultra-nationalist military junta around him, and the NATO Nazis behind him are now beginning to conscript boys as young as fourteen. This is very likely the truth, as the official narrative, told in a manner of preemptive and deflective cover, brags about forcible enlistment of eighteen-year-old boys. As Kiev’s stated figures are always off by a considerable margin, it stands to reason that minors will soon join their elders dead in the fields and trenches. It is elementary but it bears repeating: if all of the children and the young generations capable of having children are killed, then the subject population will go extinct. This may very well have been the plan for Ukraine all along, and a model for the greater annihilation the Clowns would have visited upon Russia. These prospects make the blood boil. Still, we may be thankful for another exposition of the depths of depravity the wicked will quickly delve into. We should also be grateful for the positive example of stalwart Russian awareness, will to resist, and manful ability to fight and defeat evil. It’s an odd assortment of stories and sentiments. But we should be thankful for all of them. Please enjoy Thanksgiving Day, the weekend of shopping, recovery, and football, and the coming Christmas Season. Deo vindice!
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Hello, it’s another excuse for a coherent column! I was loosely planning another installment in the tale of Pericles and Julia, neither of whom has a last name at this early point, but my loose plans stalled. I’ve been a little busy and last weekend I had a case of the sniffles. I can only assume it was COVID as I know of the existence of no other respiratory illnesses. And it was COVID bad. As a stupid unvaccinated man, relying on antiquated notions about an “immune” system, and doomed to dark winters of despair, I died three times in as many days from the dread bat-borne bug. It is still from the bat, right? They haven’t uncovered any plans or recipes, have they? Raw bat salad at the Long John Silvers in the Wuhan Mall food court, if I remember correctly. Anyway, the good news is that every time one dies from C19, one gets a nifty “Thank You!” email informing one of one’s votes. Each time I died, I voted six times, in multiple jurisdictions, for [Deep State Sham Candidate “X” and/or Proxy, 2024]! As an American, I am not good with maths. But let’s see: died five times, multiplied by seven fake votes… I like to think I have done my part for climate change! (Almost four years of these lame jokes, I know.) I thought of reintroducing a column I wrote for the Piedmont Chronicles over four years ago. It’s as relevant now as it was then, more so, in fact. But it can wait, perhaps for a grand update. Look for a major development in Ukraine by or about the end of this year. Major development. There potentially looms another stellar defeat for the exceptional GAE. The numbers in Occupied Palestine keep changing. Following the green flag events of October 7th, we were told some 1,400 Israelis were killed. It was soon lowered to 1,200. Last I checked, it was down again to about 1,000, the majority being combatants. The 40 decapitated babies story was, of course, just propaganda. There was, it appears, one infant fatality—a tragedy—though it is not clear whether that one baby was killed by Hamas. It seems the IDF was a little more active that fateful day than originally reported and that their actions, directly against the people they’re allegedly supposed to defend, tilted a little towards the false side of the flag. The number of dead Palestinian men, women, and children continues to soar without end. Perhaps you’ve heard talk from time to time about a “two-state” solution for Occupied Palestine. Talk is about as far as the concept ever gets. In truth, the GAE-led axis of evil might be pursuing a one-state solution. That state is tentatively known as “Greater Israel,” a cobbling land grab that would stretch from Egypt to Iran. That plan is in the process of failing—another brewing GAE defeat. But people still talk about the double-nation concept. And that gave me an idea. The current, dying US is going to dissolve itself, probably sooner than later, along lines that are less than clear. The only prediction that makes sense is that California and large parts of the Southwest are either going back to Mexico or into a new state(s) aligned with Mexico. That leaves a lot of real estate and many millions of people in the lurch. Whether it’s 5, 10, 50, or 500 new rump states, I foresee a multi-state solution. The good news is that, again, there is a lot of land, pre-existing geographic subdivisions, more than enough resources, and space for all the various peoples and/or combinations of peoples in the former US. The bad news is that these are not the smartest people and they tend to like doing things the hard way. At times, I’ve given thought to trying to roughly work out a plan for how things might go, along a few different lines, for people, say, in the South. This is highly speculative. And it involves things like maps, demographics, math, and a hard look at reality. Sensing most people are not quite ready for all that, I keep putting it off while entertaining other endeavors. We still have some time and things aren’t so bleak yet. And there’s really no need today as I have lately learned that our time-traveling friends have departed 1859(!) … for 1607. Instead of saying that’s 252 years the wrong way, I'll just work with it. 1585 is as fine a year as any. A lost colony for a— Right! 1607 it is. Things were really much the same then as they are now. Spanish bankruptcy heralded the future total bankruptcy of the West. Groups are forever fighting over Aleppo. If you don’t build a defensive fort, angry savages will come to kill your children—though today they sport rainbows instead of feathers. We’ll soon witness the meeting and then the blissful wedding of Amonute Pocahontas and John Rolfe. Who doesn’t love a love story? Even if it ends in a fit of Smallpox on the Thames? Ah. 1607 was also the year the pinnace Virginia was built and launched. Of course, despite her name, she was the industrializing work of the proto-yankees, so maybe it's a chapter best forgotten. It is said that around 1607, or maybe 1608, an old woman in northern India looked out at a sunset and dreamily said, “I hope someday a bunch of fools called Republicans help my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great granddaughter, a known pagan witch, become their leader and genocide half the world.” Back in this century, I hear the known pagan witch wants to put me, you, and everyone else on her special list for “national security” and so forth. (Whatever, Lowcountry Jezebel.) Is it just me, or do you picture that demon thing from Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom when you hear her name? Okay! We’re also anxiously awaiting a literary development of some worth. It’s my stealthy return to semi-academic writing and it will answer a burning question posed among the international intelligentsia. My answer is in professional editorial hands at the moment, though I am assured it’s only a matter of time. Вы прочтете это, когда оно будет готово. That, more Ponchiks, maybe some Christmas fiction, and more will get us closer to the new year. Quality will improve tomorrow. Deo vindice. Reviews of ORDO PLURIVERSALIS by Leonid Savin and LOOKING FOR MR. JEFFERSON by Dr. Clyde N. Wilson11/11/2023 Today, I have the rare honor of presenting two excellent books in one review! They are Leonid Savin’s Ordo Pluriversalis and Clyde Wilson’s Looking For Mr. Jefferson. As a review preview, “Ordo Pluriversalis” is, of course, Latin for “versatile order” or the “order of many”, a natural name for a tome about the multipolarity of the Sovereign Nations; and, look no further, we have found Jefferson, in a way rescuing him from almost two centuries of confuscation. In my mind’s eye, these works are somewhat interrelated though their subject matters are separated both by oceans and the considerable passage of time. They both also came to my attention and into my possession within a matter of short days. Therefore, in an effort certain to please all, I hereafter discuss them consecutively and with some small degree of overlap. I recommend both with the greatest enthusiasm and sincerity. Savin, Leonid, Ordo Pluriversalis: The End of Pax Americana and the Rise of Multipolarity, London: Black House, 2020.Regardless of latitude, longitude, and speed of rotation, the world is a small place. We, those of us in, though not of the world, occasionally experience issues of timing which delight mysteriously—almost as if we are under Someone’s grand plan for us and our fellows. Only a few weeks before writing this review, I had added Ordo Pluriversalis to my “books to buy” list. Perhaps divinely inspired, or else by telepathy, the magnanimous author sent me a copy, for which I am most grateful. For those unaware, perhaps in my Southern audience, Mr. Savin is an expert on geopolitical, military, and terrorism-related matters. He is a member of the Military Scientific Society of the Russian Ministry of Defense and a steering committee member for the Islamabad International Counter-Terrorism Forum. He is the founder and chief editor of Geopolitika. In 2022, he also received the high honor of being singled out by name by the U.S. Department of State and its lapdog Organization for Security and Cooperation in Europe for his ongoing contributions to the Russian-led Multipolar “far-right information ecosystem.” Recalling that the hatred and scorn of the wicked is proof positive of noble virtue, I, for one, thank fake Secretary Blinken, Ambassador Carpenter, and the rest of America’s false government of occupation for their endorsement of my friend. I would be remiss if I did not also praise the superb translation skills of Mr. Jafe Arnold who skillfully converted the book into English. My America has truly morphed into the Global American Empire (“GAE”), a thing which, thankfully, appears to be entering its final days of international troublemaking. However, it is worth remembering or learning that the GAE was originally born as a multipolar association of free and sovereign states. With a tip of my hat to the international community, my review is primarily intended for Western readers, those in America, generally, and my South, particularly. For a comprehensive and exhaustive critique, I heartily endorse Dr. Kerry Bolton’s 2021 survey. I also hereby appropriate Dr. Bolton’s opening remarks:
It is an utterly fascinating exposition of political thought, philosophy, practice, and history, crystal in clarity and expansive in scope and notation. It is also seemingly prophetic. At nearly 500 pages, one supposes that Savin labored for more than a year or three in researching and assembling the book. Knowing the writing process, I suspect a draft was finished no later than 2019 for publication in 2020. And by 2019, massive, tectonic changes were already happening in the world of international relations. But it was the events of 2022 (through today) that have literally brought Savin’s assertions and theories to life. Ordo Pluriversalis reads like a script well-written in advance and well-enacted by the players of the global stage. This is amazing, confounding even, for the Western reader—even one thinking himself abreast of various developments. As such, as this work has empirically proven its validity, it should command a premium value for those who undertake reading it in any year. The book is dedicated to the 100th anniversary of another book, Europe and Mankind, by a (or the) father of Eurasianism, at least of the Russian variety, Nikolai Trubetzkoy. Because of its great size, high population, and immense resources, the Eurasian supercontinent has ever been of great strategic importance. It was not meant to be ruled, dominated, conquered, or sidelined by a peculiar power on a small island in the North Sea or its larger descendant on a vast island of sorts, separated from Eurasia by ample lengths of oceans. It can’t be. Ordo Pluriversalis is the story of the new beginning for the Old World, as largely led by Russia and China. Again, it is an almost predictive model of current events, ostensibly riding the leading edge of an unstoppable wave. However, just as it cannot be ruled from without, Eurasia has little interest in ruling from within. As approximated in the book and as witnessed in real-time, the concept of multipolarity is just that—the idea of many countries and peoples standing sovereign and separate while interacting fairly with each other when they meet. For those of the “golden billion” of the West, should they sort out their own internal affairs, the prospects of joining the larger civilized world are great and potentially rewarding. It is my hope that some in America, England, France, Germany, etc. are able to replicate some of the ideas Savin discusses so well. History did not end, as were told it would or had. However, the age of Western global dominance is over. The Enlightenment was a resounding failure. As Jacques Barzun’s masterpiece title told us, the thing has run From Dawn To Decadence. The moment of Western-led unipolarity was just that—a moment not an era, as Savin notes several times (pages 7, 11, 13, etc.). Much of the extreme chaos and violence in the world today, from Ukraine to Palestine, is the (hopefully) final frantic efforts of the rulers of the West to maintain and impose their “rules-based” international order. As President Vladimir Putin recently noted or scoffed at Valdai, no one was consulted about the formulation of these rules and no one even knows what they are. It is good and right that they now fade into history, taking their masters and proponents with them. As others have surmised, long ago and along its way the West was essentially hijacked. While the process was assisted by many internal accomplices, it was pushed and is now (mis)ruled by a loose cabal of cosmopolitan outsiders best described as satanists. For they are and ever have been against God, against Christianity, and against any and all free peoples of goodwill. Until The End, they cannot be wholly defeated, though it is good to see them recede. Real Westerners should rejoice as the great unfolding heralds their rare chance to reclaim their true identities and societies. In addition to expertly explaining various alternatives to the rot of the hijacked fake West, Savin does an excellent job of deconstructing what the West was and is and how it came to be what it is. Part of the deconstruction may be grating for the Western reader, though it is a shaving worthy of consideration. Also, as the book admits, many words and concepts have different meanings depending on where they are used and by whom. I encourage the intrepid reader to play along with such terms as “racism”, “nation”, “nationalism”, and more. Getting right to a perhaps uncomfortable truth, on page 152:
The world is now witnessing a de-marginalization from the periphery. Joseph Borrell’s “jungle” is growing back, like Kudzu on steroids. And it turns out that most of it is its own kind of beautiful garden, if not the limited, curated type Borrell prefers. Much of Chapter Five, “Deconstructing the West,” is eye-opening and may foster new thoughts or ways of thinking in the reader’s head. This process is a good thing for the heritage Westerner because, as others have shown clearly, he has been in many ways, similar and dissimilar, oppressed by the faux rulers of the West just like the marginalized people of the colonized or relegated outside world. In honest Borrell-speak, while much destruction and herbicidal spraying went on in the outside jungle, inside the garden there was excessive native pruning. The time has come to end all of the damage. The unipolar gardeners are in every sense attempting to rebuild and control the Tower of Babel. As such was intentionally destroyed by God the Father, who saw fit to fully separate the peoples of the earth (Genesis 11:9), the attempt to reassemble the host in defiance of God is purely luciferian. What is supposed, post-Genesis, to extend to all nations, is the Gospel of Jesus Christ. (Mark 13:10). The gardeners must fail eternally—a refreshing thought—as we are assured the nations will endure even in Heaven. (Revelations 7:9). Their transient temporal failure is already happening, and while it may be accompanied by upheaval and discord, we should welcome it. A large portion of the book is dedicated to showcasing the differences across cultures and time regarding things like law, sovereignty, borders, economic structures, and even the very natures of different peoples. It is, in fact, good that there are these many differences. I have something extra to add from Savin’s Eighth Chapter, “Economics and Religion”. But as this is a dual review and I have an idea to combine bits, I’m going to risk mixing it in with Dr. Wilson’s fine book and related commentary! Savin’s final chapters deal with the new alternative of multipolarity. As I noted, above, in the context of America’s thirteen original “pole” states, the alternative is really just a reversion to the historical norm. A one-world order is unnatural. As Savin notes, on page 401: “With regards to homogeneity, the Italian philosopher Giorgio Agamben suggested that the notion of a uniform world for all living beings is an illusion.” Chapter Twelve is a walk-through of various theories for implementing, or, rather, re-implementing a pluralistic world order. The author remains optimistic, as do I, that the new sovereign order will represent a more perfect and harmonious substitute for what we have suffered since the end of World War Two, and especially since the end of the Cold War. That the alternative is not operated by overt devil-worshipers speaks well of its potential. Most ideologies and “isms” being dead letters, new philosophies and theories are needed. Savin discusses some of them. There is also a need for new institutions to facilitate orderly interaction between peoples and countries (or a revamping of existing institutions). Savin delves into these around page 432, with “Parallel Structures”, those designed to supplant or surpass the existing compromised forums. BRICS, for instance, has already grown mightily since Savin’s book was published, with the BRICS economies surpassing those of the G7 last year and the copious expansion of BRICS(+) this year. We eagerly await the Kazan meeting next year and the formal unveiling of that which will replace SWIFT and, potentially, the Petrodollar (already a thing in decline and retreat). Some space is devoted to the future of “European Autonomy”, page 436—, and the coming potential liberation of European countries, both from their own devices and from Washingtonian control. It is not so difficult to envision a tandem liberation of the American States. As Savin explains in his Afterword, page 463, “The theory of multipolarity has developed shoulder to shoulder with critiques of the hegemony of the United States of America. Even outside of this context as well, many authors have been wary of the US’ efforts to preserve its leadership.” The theory is becoming fact and practice before our eyes. And as the events of the past several years have shown, many are correct to be wary as the rulers of the dying GAE fiercely try to maintain some semblance of control over the world they are losing. May that they falter and collapse as their loss is mankind’s gain. Savin ends with the impact of the (then) current effects of the US’s evil bioweapons program, COVID, on the US itself. Today, his mention of “This sickness”, pages 466-467, may as well be a metaphor for the overdue death throes of the US Empire. The survival of the US (in some form(s)) and the greater West is at stake. We in the West and of its heritage must take this issue seriously if we are to emerge and rebuild. In this regard, Leonid Savin gives us either a grand map, a strong cornerstone, or both. I am pleased to suggest his sublime scholarship as expressed within Ordo Pluriversalis. Wilson, Clyde N., Looking For Mr. Jefferson, Columbia, SC: Shotwell, 2023 (EPUB edition*).Dr. Wilson, like his subject, Thomas Jefferson, requires no introduction in Southern circles. This review, however, might, for those in the wider world. Dr. Wilson is a professor emeritus at the University of South Carolina, the “dean” of Southern history. That the politically correct administration at USC refuses to include him, their most famed living professor, on the department’s retired faculty website, speaks volumes about their shallowness and cements Dr. Wilson’s academic prowess and value. He is a co-founder of Shotwell Publishing, the South’s premier showplace of historical, intellectual, and fictional thought, and he has made a career of documenting the importance of many Southern leaders, including the immortal John C. Calhoun, Thomas Jefferson, and more. Like Savin, Wilson also possesses a keen sense of timing, the temporal grace of the Almighty, or both. In response to my previous review of Why The West Can’t Win by Dr. Fadi Lama, Dr. Wilson (to me, “Clyde”, my cigar and rebel-rousing buddy) left this comment at Reckonin’:
With Clyde, the certainty of a new book is guaranteed, though the timing can be a mystery. I launched a quick inquiry and wound up with my e-copy before I even got the usual launch notification email from Shotwell. As promised, the book does a fine job recounting Jefferson’s valiant struggle against debt, usury, and more. It is a compilation of some fifty years of written commentary and lecture material about America’s third federated republican President under the Constitution of 1787 (effective 1789). I remind some and inform others that America had, in fact, fourteen “Continental” Presidents before George Washington, with Peyton Randolph and John Hancock each serving two separate terms. But of the fifty-nine men who have served as America’s chief executive—sixty, if one foolishly includes the installed rather than elected Brandon the AI—few stand out as Jefferson did in his time and as he continues to as an exemplary historical marker. Dr. Wilson well captures the mind and spirit of the great statesman, no small feat for a shorter book! Mentioned and alluded to here and there, Dr. Wilson devotes Chapter 19 to “A Jeffersonian Political Economy”. Here is as fine a place as any for me to point out that the early federated American Republic, as interpreted by the “Federalists,” was a theoretical and political progenitor of the GAE, which really launched toward its global trajectory during and after Abraham Lincoln’s war of 1861-85. Why? As Dr. Wilson observes, in Chapter 19, “Southerners saw the [new 1787] Constitution as the people’s control over government power. Northerners saw it as an instrument to be manipulated to their advantage.” Later on, especially after 1865, the Northern view guided the nexus of political and economic dominance towards empire, within and without the several American States.** The world was issued a dire warning about the future growth of Lincoln’s empire, even without Lincoln, via words Dr. Wilson included in a list of quotes in Chapter 20, “Jeffersonian Wisdom”: “The consolidation of the States into one vast empire, sure to be aggressive abroad and despotic at home, will be the certain precursor of ruin which has overwhelmed all that preceded it.” So said General Robert E. Lee in 1866. The GAE grew to be all Lee feared and foresaw. The twin driving factors behind this malignancy were military power, real or conjectured, and financial/monetary prominence. Jefferson would have detested both. Back in Chapter 19, correctly writes Wilson:
Was and is this position perfect? Of course, not. But it belied a noble worldview and spirit. Jefferson’s newspaper call for “free trade” was asserted the year before David Ricardo’s fanatical obsession with corn uber alles was redesigned to foster nebulous “comparative advantage”, notions since abolished by nearly two centuries of practical experience. As Wilson notes elsewhere, Jeffersonian free trade really meant “fair” trade, the opposite of what globalizing free traders have foisted on the world. Jefferson’s aversion to debt stands as valid now as it did then. That the Washington Post recently cautioned against meddling with the precious Federal Reserve system and its alleged good deeds, speaks to the horrible power the thing has accumulated via its abetting Washington’s madness and its shareholder commercial banks will to absorb all value from the entire economy with digital nothingness. What is practiced today, a wicked inversion of reality, is not the separation Jefferson envisioned. Rather, it is a false face for the collusion of the Money Powers to dominate all with usury compounded upon usury and based on nothing more than hoaxes and threats. Jefferson, were he alive today, would assuredly stand against satanic faux Western monetary and economic policies; I suspect he would also keenly understand the sovereign desire to move beyond unipolar control of the world by liars, thieves, and murderers. While I cannot say he might be a proponent of them, Jefferson would certainly understand the Sino-Russian concepts of “whole process” “democracy” and economic policy. Wilson covers well the idea of “Jeffersonian Democracy” in Chapter 7. “Thomas Jefferson remains the best American symbol for democracy—that is, decision-making by majority rule of the body of citizens. He really believed in the rule of the people. In the short run they might go astray, but the people—with their judgment, honesty, and patriotism—were the best reliance for a good commonwealth.” Jefferson was a true philosopher and a somewhat libertarian idealist. Wilson adds a proper cautionary note which is in keeping with Jefferson’s own expressed views of democracy:
In the context of Jefferson’s late Eighteenth and early Nineteenth Centuries, the lapse towards a chaotic form of government, classically-speaking in line with tyranny and oligarchy—into which American democracy evolved—is somewhat forgivable. All of America’s founding—her leaders, the Constitution, and the very composition of the population—were a mixed bag. For a time, reality allowed for Jefferson’s high optimism. Hindsight is twenty-twenty and we may see that some of Jefferson’s rhetoric, truly based on the best intentions, especially as compared to that of Alexander Hamilton and other lesser Americans, in ways contributed to some of the developments Jefferson feared. Rhetoric, while pointing towards a truth, may not exactly be the truth. For instance, Jefferson’s insistence in the Declaration of Independence that “all men are created equal”, while lauded by many in various political camps, is, in fact, false. No men are created equal, not even identical twins. Jefferson’s qualification, “they are endowed by their Creator…”, serves as a proper if understated and oft-ignored admission that the only kind of total human equality is limited to the eyes of God. Wilson, at intervals, discusses Jefferson’s religious beliefs and practices and how they were perceived by his temporal peers. The whole underpinning of Jeffersonian democracy, which was at odds with competing Yankee or Freemasonic visions of American governance and way of life, was that the people remain faithful and uncorrupted. Even in his time, this may have amounted to very well-intended but still wishful thinking. However, after Jefferson, and after Lincoln, things progressed or devolved as they did. Many changes rapidly swept the land, its people, their ideas of government, and how they perceived money and economics. America’s money today is essentially non-existent, which allows the Money Powers virtually unfettered discretion in how best (or worst) to rob and maim the world. How all this was allowed to happen over the long years is a slight mystery, perhaps best explained by a gentle gullibility on the part of so many Americans. As Wilson notes, many in the South, then and now, have a less than clear understanding of what economics is and how it works. This mental fogginess is shared by most mainstream economists, as noted by Dr. Lama, Michael Hudson, and others. Some of the lingering American misunderstandings may, as some suggest, stem from a contest of Protestantism(s): of (Southern) Calvinism versus (Northern)(English) Puritanism. Understood or not, this is part of the genesis of “liberal capitalism,” aka, financial or globalist capitalism. Here, the reintroduction of Savin’s observations: Ordo Pluriversalis, supra, page 255: “It should be noted that among the creationist religions, it is Judaism and Protestantism that became a kind of set of wings for the plane of liberal capitalism, which has extended its influence on a global scale.” It is most interesting to note that the US was founded and built largely by Protestants and that sometime in the mid-late 20th Century, it came to be controlled, de jure and/or de facto, by Judaics.*** This may be the natural path of a course plotted in Germany 500 years ago, which, in America, reached a fevered pitch in the 20th Century. It may explain the American obsession with “sacred” contracts and debts, tolerance of usury and fake money, and essentially a prohibition against debt cancellations and socioeconomic realignment - among many other unusual things. Savin goes on, page 263, to plainly set the “spiritual roots” in the tandem ground of Judaism and Protestantism. Understanding the nature of those roots, which at earliest begin with the suggestion for and support of the Reformation, goes a long way in explaining the post-Bretton Woods monetary and economic world and, really, the captured Western world in general. Savin, for his part, then discusses the differing—from the status quo of postmodernity and from each other—positions of Orthodox and Latin Catholic doctrines. It would be wise for Westerners to also consider these matters if we are to ever change course, financially and otherwise. Wilson goes on, Looking…, supra, painting an excellent portrait of Jefferson, with his own commentary, reviews of works by others about the President, expositions of the lives of other Jeffersonian-minded Americans, and an explicit examination of why postmodern thinkers (and general Hamiltonian-Lincolntonite theorists of all ages) hate Jefferson. On that last note, Chapter 16 is titled, “Why They Hate Jefferson,” being a review of The Long Affair: Thomas Jefferson, and The French Revolution by Connor Cruise O’Brien. In short summation, Wilson writes: “The Establishment is frightened by the rumblings they hear from the Great Beast (that is, we the American people).” Jefferson was the foremost of our genuine intellectual benefactors. We do, even at this late hour, run the risk of “watering the tree” as he once suggested. That is why “they” hate him (and us). On the matter of intellectualization, and, thus, education, I end with a brief look at Jefferson’s accomplishments as detailed in Chapter 8, “Thomas Jefferson: New World Philosopher”. Jefferson, the founder of the University of Virginia, also set about building a curriculum for the then essentially non-existent Virginia (lower) public schools. Wilson makes patently clear and obvious that what Jefferson wanted was the polar opposite of the state-mandated evil of Northerners like Horace Mann and his system of schools as docile slave training factories. Jefferson wanted young students to learn—a concept completely outside the current American mainstream. Wilson gives a bare hint of the curriculum:
Jefferson also considered daily physical exercise critical for the development of a young mind. To this end, he advocated daily constitutional walks—with a firearm. This is a far cry from the non-standards of neo-Prussian, feminized, homosexualized American education today, a system of total innumeracy, lack of any scientific acumen, and illiteracy regardless of language. Jefferson’s was a better system, designed by a better man. Those who have experienced his works and wisdom are better for having done so. In keeping with that legacy, I suggest all will benefit from joining Dr. Wilson in Looking For Mr. Jefferson. *My EPUB (browser) reader displays well but leaves a little to be desired in the way of pagination. Therefore, I referenced as well as I could.
**As a related aside, I would like to someday explore the actions of a certain Tsar, understandable if counter-fortuitous, and how they might have assisted the nascent American imperial development which would soon become the plague and peril of the world. This exploration promises to be fun, or so I imagine. In time. ***I sure hope I don’t end up on the witch Nimarata’s little list… I don’t know much about Telegram, but, evidently, a lot of people use it. Some misuse the social service. The other day, a known disinformation channel targeting the Muslim-majority Dagestan Republic of the Russian Federation, ran a warning that a planeload of Jewish refugees were inbound from Occupied Palestine. The channel is operated out of Kiev and is a project of the SBU-CIA terror network. It has since been blocked and Russian authorities have taken remedial measures regarding the mostly peaceful protest that erupted at the local airport based on the psyops refugee tip. While they were likely led by NATO Nazi-backed insurgents, some Islamic Dagestanis fell for the ruse. They protested at the airport in an attempt to safeguard their Republic from invasion. It was a hoax, but in their defense, at least they were proactive. These people are intelligent and they remember various episodes from their history and the history of other nations. Beginning at the end of the nineteenth century, Palestinians were confronted with successive waves of Jewish refugees and now find themselves facing extermination. So it is that, begrudgingly, Americans may be forgiven for falling for similar disinformation campaigns. After all, if intelligent Muslims who take their faith seriously can be duped, then dull-witted neo-pagans must be expected to fall for whatever lies they are told, no matter how ridiculous. It’s almost like Americans live to fall for hoaxes, and they’ve been treated to another big one for the past few weeks. Being mildly wicked, extremely gullible, and rather stupid, maybe they just can’t help it. Their disinformation propaganda channels have names like “BBC,” “CNN,” “FOXNews,” and “NewsMax.” Immediately after the US-Israeli green flag operation out of Gaza on October 7, lurid tabloid headlines like this appeared:
It appears to be the Hasbera job of UK “news” outlets to first trumpet these ridiculous lies, perhaps as an SIS-CIA vetting process. Next, they are presented in bold and red at places like the Sludge Report. Thereafter, the mantra is repeated perpetually, broken only by regular cries of, “Antisemitic!”, at outlets like FOX “News” and “News”Max. One frequently hears this nonsense from empty babbling heads like Ben “No, I Personally Won’t Fight” Shapiro and putrid politicians like the bloodthirsty warmongering lunatic, Satan’s Senator, Lindsey “Level the Place” Graham. There’s just one small problem with this particular narrative—as there usually is. It didn’t happen. Americans, who probably still can’t find Israel on a map or understand that postmodern political Israel is in no way even geographically contiguous with Biblical Israel, have never heard of, won’t read, or can’t read Haaretz, Israel’s paper of record and a far better news outlet than most Western imitations. Haaretz published a list of Israeli casualty victims from October 7. It included names and photographs. The majority were combatants—soldiers or police officers. Of the civilian minority, one suspects many were armed (illegal) settlers and, thus, quasi-combatants. Hamas, not necessarily the nicest people, but still constrained by the laws of Islamic warfare, only killed sixteen Israelis under the age of eighteen. Haaretz also included casualty ages. None of them were younger than four. There is no evidence any were beheaded. In other words, like 9-11 (Operation Northwoods), the Gulf of Tonkin, COVID, Judeo-”Christianity,” and Putin dying 75 times while his army retreated in chaos from victorious Ukraine, the 40 beheaded babies line was just another lie. Again, being given to support evil, and being extremely stupid (which is their best defense against charges of overt wickedness), many Americans do not know, cannot learn, and will never try to come up to speed on reality. If these idiots wanted to see the real impact of warfare on children, hundreds murdered per day and pushing a cumulative 4,000 at the time of my drafting, they could simply look at Al Jazeera's 24/7 coverage (*disturbing*). They won’t. And they won’t bother to learn, largely because they can’t. Learning requires reading, and most Americans are fully or functionally illiterate. Not so in Palestine! During all the late unpleasantness, I was reminded of a happier chapter from just last year. On the Prepper Post News episode of March 1, 2022, I was privileged to discuss the rebuilding of Gaza’s largest bookstore. The PPN is, sadly, no more, but via the miracle of the digital interwebs, you can listen right here. My report was based on something I read, a heartwarming tale of good people seeking out good books. For FOX”News” watchers, “books” are assembled sets of paper with words written in them. The words convey ideas. Ideas are neuron-transmitted sensory…never mind. Unlike so many coffee and toy stores in ‘Murica that still call themselves bookstores, Gaza’s shop carries books. A lot of them: If you’re a TeeVee-watching, literacy-challenged ‘Murican, then these are real Palestinians. Notice they are happy people who are browsing books (yes, one might be hoax masking, but I’m sure she probably had a valid reason): Here’s a picture (and I didn’t mean to loot so many, AJ, but they’re excellent!) of some women and a little girl looking at charming children’s books. These are the people the filthy witch Nimarata Haley, braindead Brandon, and vampiric war criminal Benny Net-a-Yahoo want to genocide: The bookstore was founded around 2000 by Samir Mansour. It served as an information center and cultural gathering place. In May of 2021, the store and its roughly 100,000 books were destroyed by an IDF bombing raid—like so many houses, shops, hospitals, Mosques, Churches (yes, Normiecon, many Palestinians are Christians), schools, and refugee camps. By the time I found out about the store, it had been rebuilt bigger and better than ever. In 2022 it reopened in a new and very nice three-story facility packed with over 300,000 books. Again, Mansour’s is the largest bookstore in Gaza; it is the largest compared to the others—because there are others. By way of comparison, the rapidly decaying little Southern suburban town where I exist (for a little while longer) does not have any bookstores. There are a scant few in the area, none of which approach the bibliophilist’s delight in Gaza. That recalls to my mind some bookstores I knew in the bygone era of immediately post-peak America as well as a select few shops still operating in the lingering geographic vestiges of our collapsing national intelligentsia. Now one has to wonder if the grand reconstruction and improvement effort was in vain. Thanks to Anglo-Zionist supremacy, hatred, and satanic inclination, Mansour’s store has been bombed again.
If you are a Christian, a Muslim, or another honest person of faith, please pray for these helpless people. Books and bookstores can be replaced as many times as needed. People, however, are irreplaceable. The women and the girl in that picture have been affected by the war, and there is a statistical possibility one or more of them, the girl especially, has been killed or wounded. The GAE-Israeli axis of evil has targeted the Palestinian people for forced expulsion or outright eradication. If all their bodies and minds are killed, there will be no need for printed words. If you are a retarded heathen who somehow drifted into this article, then understand, if it's possible, that this is real news about what is really happening to real people in the real world. While you might not be slurring “Paveway!” on any of this ongoing terrorism, your tolerance and tacit support of evildoers at least indirectly implicates you in the disaster. Pray to fix that as well.
Remember to oppose unjustified violence whenever possible, stand by decent people, and read. Books really do have a healing quality. Deo vindice. Librum lege! Somewhere high above in the cold, dreary sky, an airliner rumbled along, either leaving or making for Pushkin. By the revving of the engines, as he perceived the sound, he assumed it was departing. But he didn’t check, instead keeping his focus on the green steel tube on the sidewalk, readied on its bi-pod next to a display of furry, ear-covering women’s hats. She was handling one of them, a rich, dark brown one when he broached his concern. ‘Do you think I can buy this? Is this even legal? I get the feeling a newcomer like me should probably inquire of the FSB before getting such a weapon. I’m not even eligible for a smoothbore at this point, and I don’t want to get deported or anything.’ ‘Heaven forfend,’ she said, still feeling the soft ear flaps. ‘We can’t have that. And, while I can’t be certain—who can—I assume anything they sell here is legal. Of course, I would not, being you or me, dare ask the FSB about that stupid thing. And you’re not getting it. How, one wonders, would they react when you carried it into the Metro?’ ‘I hadn’t thought about the logistics, no,’ he said. ‘I mean, it’s just so cool. And cheap for— I assume this is cheap for a, what is this? I think it’s a— Hang on, serial’s still on it. It’s an RM-38!’ ‘And you’re not getting the stupid MR-whatever.’ ‘Not on the train obviously. But who doesn’t want a fifty-millimeter Soviet infantry mortar?!’ He was standing there admiring the thing while wearing an excited boyish smile. He looked most optimistic. ‘I do not,’ she answered. “Why is it even here? Of all the things you could have found at Levash…’ ‘I’ll see if the man will hold it. When I buy the Niva, I’ll come pick it up!’ ‘Your business, renegade. Father would join your mad endearment for the sad little pipe. And are you still considering the uncomfortable, tiny mud plow?’ ‘It’s your car,’ he defended. ‘And it’s classic. Even in the name.’ ‘LADA sells much nicer, more comfortable, and more practical cars, my dear. And some of them are four-by-four, like all rednecks love.’ ‘Hey! I’m okay with it. Just don’t talk about my people like that.’ ‘Not just yours,’ she said. ‘Every culture has them. Our boys in the Urals, some not too far from here too even have y’aaaall’s saying: Эй, вы все! Смотрите на это! You know, Hey, y’all! Watch this! Usually accompanied by alcohol and firearms. Just before some localized calamity.’ ‘Good to know I have the approval of the Ural boys. Think how nice this mortar would look in the back of a shiny new mud plow four-by-four. Or maybe resting out the passenger window!’ ‘I think you may have had too much to drink at lunch. But—thinking— You should really think about using your full first name,’ she said with a bright, energetic smile. ‘Really? I don’t want to sound pretentious.’ ‘No, it’s anything but that. It, especially to us, and given what you do and want to do, it sounds so authoritative. Regal, almost. Put that on a treatise or novel and it will command attention. Especially if you added a little Corinthian helmet icon or something. I love the short name, but we’re talking about grandeur now. My sweet Perry, Перри with the и. Spell it out with your “y” and people might think you’re a cider made from pears.’ ‘Can’t have that,’ Perry said with a grin. ‘Buy me this hat,’ she said sweetly but instructively. ‘That’s a dead animal, you know?’ ‘I know. Probably a mink. I like it and I want it, so you buy it. We have no crazy, blue-haired eco-nut girls here. I’m at the top of the hat chain.’ ‘Poor, unwanted, little mink.’ ‘I just said I want him. And, you know I hunt. Kill it, clean it, eat it. Now, wear it.’ ‘I’m starting to think I want to marry you,’ Perry said. ‘Well, good boy! Also, think about using your real name,’ she said. ‘And how did your parents come up with it?’ He quickly paid the old babushka seated next to the mortar and assorted arms man. A quick inquiry was launched about holding the cannon, though it was cut short by her huffs and tugs on his arm. As they started to walk towards the exit and perhaps something to snack on for the short ride back to the city center, he explained: ‘At Dad’s old school, the archeology department had a little museum. Next to a mock-up of an Egyptian sarcophagus—I can still see the place—they had a replica bust of the general, helmet and all. The story goes that Mom and Dad were loitering around a few months before I made my first appearance. They talked about him, and me, and decided if he’s a boy. And so forth.’ ‘That’s so nifty,’ she said. ‘And original. And again, it makes you sound like someone important, which of course, you are. Promise you’ll think it over.’ ‘I will,’ he said. ‘Now, Julia, if I do, will you be my Aspasia?’ ‘No promises, specifically on the nickname,’ Julia said. ‘A name of the muddy waters maybe. And I don’t mean the jazz man.’ ‘Blues.’ ‘Whatever.’ ‘Julia,’ he said again, slowly wrapping his arms around her. ‘I just asked you if you’d be my Aspasia. You just said you love your Perry. He’s kind of got a thing for you too. Be my girl?’ In a fair turnabout, she kissed his nose. ‘He mentioned something about getting married too. Of course! I’ll be your beloved Aspasia — just don’t sully my reputation around like so many poets and philosophers.’ ‘That I can avoid,’ he whispered into her ear. ‘Ironic, no?’ she asked. ‘What?’ ‘She was a metic. Here and, for now, that’s you!’ ‘I know, right?’ he said as they resumed their slow stroll. ‘And that means I must be careful with acquiring heavy weapons.’ ‘I’m sure it’s a replica,’ she said. ‘Or properly deactivated.’ ‘Can’t be too careful,’ he said; ‘this is Russia and all.’ ‘Countries!’ she said, concurrently putting a little skip in her step. ‘Tell me about that strange idea that you’ve been whispering about on the friends and family flipper.’ ‘You don’t want to rehash empire-approved IDF airstrikes on hospitals, churches, mosques, and refugees? Or the vicious demands of lunatic neoliberals named Haley and Graham?’ he asked, thinking for a split-second about the rank degeneracy of the dead country he’d left, finding a hollow embarrassment in his own words. ‘No. You and the others covered that in too great a detail the other day. No homos and harpies now.’ She slipped on her hat and tugged the flaps down tight over her ears. ‘Tell me, tell the poor mink about this rebel plan of yours.’ ‘Very well, my sultry Aspasia,’ he said. At that, she rolled her eyes and lightly elbowed his ribs. But he continued: ‘It kind of started with that joint discussion the departments had about de Gaulle and his Free French government. Privately, we Americans kept up the talk and it sort of morphed into a crazy idea.’ ‘Then it’s American,’ she added. He gently returned the rib knock, followed by a mussing disarrangement of the departed mink, and kept going: ‘So, despite all that I have going on here, and despite all the problems back home, the barest suggestion was made. A vague, uncertain, and probably most untenable idea. Given that my people are utterly without representation in the GAE, and given that they’re oppressed, hated, and essentially leaderless internal exiles, and given that I’m here— Mention was made of a Confederate States government in exile. The accursed Yankees have never really abated their hostilities towards us, and we have no way of opposing them—at present—from the occupied heart of their evil empire of lies. It makes a degree of sense.’ ‘And only a degree,’ she said. ‘Maybe a fraction of one degree. How, exactly, would that work?’ ‘I have exactly no idea,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘I suppose I’d have to go through Foreign Affairs. I’m sure they would scoff at the idea with all the other headaches everywhere. Maybe once your father, the professor, and a few others with direct friendship allow me to become acquainted with the President, maybe then I’d have some sort of long-odds shot.’ ‘I’m sure he would scoff at the idea too,’ Julia said. ‘I’m scoffing at the whole thing now,’ he rejoined with another chuckle. ‘The last thing I want to do is come across as needy or burdensome. Or insane. It’s really the furthest thing from what I’m here for and what I’m planning. Not sure how any of it would work, even if everyone granted us permission with open arms and hearts. The old true believers, the ones who still mentally live before 1860, would probably want to pick up precisely where our forefathers left off. That wouldn’t work. I’ve previously mentioned setting up a shadow government of sorts. Disbelief or disinterest might be the best description of the reaction to that. They suspect, probably correctly, that what the Nation of Islam is allowed to do, we would not find so easy. That brand of reluctance makes sense. Heck, they’re imprisoning our people for lighting torches at night and making memes on Twit-bird. So many issues. Too many for now. We have no means to renew hostilities on our part despite their never-ending attacks on us. And the old Constitution would need, in my mind’s eye, a major overhaul. A total purging of any and all Enlightenment baggage. Then, there are the vital issues of economics, territory, and the radically changed demographics of the old CSA. No one, myself included, has really thought through those. If we’ve even thought of them at all. If any of it ever happened, it might be safer to start from the serenity of the outside. But, again, I scoff. For now.’ ‘Purge the fire out of the Enlightenment, the father of postmodern, so-called rules-based, Anglo-Zionist globalism,’ she said knowingly. ‘What are you thinking? About that overhaul? A Christian aristocratic monarchy?’ ‘Do the tiny degree I am thinking, yes,’ he said. He then saw something just ahead and to the side of the walkway and gestured towards it. ‘Snack pancakes from a robot vending machine! I’ve been wanting to try those. Perfect for the ride home?’ She happily agreed, and they dialed up pancakes, which would end up being more like rolled crepes, filled with a sugary concoction of fruit and cream cheese. While they watched through a window as a buzzing tube coated and recoated batter on a heated tray, she thought of a pertinent question. ‘Will you, my Perry, be the first reigning monarch?’ ‘Good grief! I had not thought about that! Not really my cup of tea.’ ‘But you are here, the representative among the free,’ she said. ‘General de Gaulle was the leader of his resistance in just such circumstances. Your namesake too, kind of, in a different sort of way. And as you’ve noted, and I’ve independently observed, there is no true leadership far away and no real way for it to arise or take office or effect.’ She was wearing, if only for a moment, her very serious academic face, which delighted him even as the suggestion made him ponder their shared sanity. ‘Let’s just put this one to rest, for now,’ he said with a shrug. ‘Besides, I want to hear more about the special project revisiting the meaning of The Brothers Karamazov. That or plan out a space in the flat for my mortar!’ ‘All of that,’ she said as she scooped two paper-rolled pastries from a little door. ‘Or the hilarity of KINO’s Мама анархия. Or better yet, how this flea market compares those in Dixie. Or best of all, the right wine for post-pancake revelry.’ With visions of renewed nations safely out of their minds, nibbling sweets while speaking to saccharify, soft and low, they made their way to the train station. A hallmark of their afternoon adventures, the fall sun began to set, settling them into a chilly evening. Inside a carriage, as it rolled south, having finished her pancake, she cuddled against him. Raising her face to his, and arching her eyebrows in revelation, she said, ‘You certainly have the name for your hypothetical station: Pericles in exile.’ With a Ph.D. from Georgia Tech, Dr. Fadi Lama may be a ramblin’ wreck. His book, however, is anything but — a smooth, fast, and powerful look deep within the rot necrotizing the West and afflicting the rest of the world. It would greatly benefit most Westerners, especially most Americans, and particularly those Americans in my Dixie to read Why The West Can’t Win. Therefore, at least to the Americans who need the information and presentation the most, we could safely assume most won’t. I hope that isn’t the case, and I have some irrationally optimistic sense that this might be THE book to finally start driving a little truth home among the masses. Hello, it’s another book review. As much as I mean to cut back on these, we just keep getting so many very good books. Herein we examine and I cite Lama, Fadi, Why The West Can’t Win: From Bretton Woods to a Multipolar World, Atlanta: Clarity Press, 2023 (Kindle Edition). It’s loaded with charts, statistics, notes and citations—usually sure killers of reader connectivity. Yet and still, I think Lama pulls off something amazing with his short, insightful work. In many of my reviews, especially concerning works of non-fiction, I repeatedly stress the importance of how well a book flows. Lama is an engineer so it makes sense he designed a presentation that cleverly posits real information, pairing it with keen discussion in a uniformly interesting fashion. The order goes something like this: 1) an idea is announced, 2) the idea is visually presented via a graph, mathematical operation, or picture, and 3) the information is synthesized with language I think most readers will appreciate and be capable of following. Why The West Can’t Win is a brief history of the corruption of Western Civilization, especially of the Anglo-American variety by a cohort of living demons Lama aptly calls “the Money Powers.” I’ll start where Lama ends, with his final cautionary words on page 357:
Bleak, but appropriate. And to a large degree, self-inflicted. What he means is that with the bifurcation of the world into Sovereign and Clown factions, and the growing inability of the Clowns to directly oppress the majority of the world population, they are now forced to vent their eternal hatred of God and man upon their only remaining victims, the people of their host countries. That hideous process is already underway. What passes for the mainstream media in the West is a poorly reasoned yet hypnotic collection of lies. Vladimir Putin recently warned the people of Kyrgyzstan to avoid reading Western outlets for that reason. I note that he concentrated on the reading part. Most Americans, being dull and barely literate, generally gain their propaganda by staring stupidly at television screens. On page 234, Lama presents a chart showing Money Power ownership of major Western media outlets; by that measure, Fox “News” really is the worst. Americans continue to defy physics, reality, and belief by falling for one set of lies after another. In the wake of the war on “terror,” the financial collapse, the global pandemic bioweapon attacks, the stolen election and coup in DC, and the NATO Nazis’ war on Russia, the dullards have instantly fallen in line with Israel’s and Lispy Graham’s goal of genociding Palestinians and spreading war and misery across the Middle East. Never letting a crisis go to waste, the anti-human wraiths of the ADL, an organization founded to honor a child rapist and murderer, are pushing more and more dystopian censorship on Americans. Not to be outdone, the feeble UK Parliament passed, in September of 2023, a new law to further regulate (read, “censor”) online information. There are many other existing examples, many of which you, dear reader, are probably aware of, and more and worse is coming. A little resistance from the people of the West against their true enemies would be both wise and welcomed. Westerners have almost uniformly come to live under democracies. Drawing on both Republican Roman experience and the traditions of Greece, Cicero believed that democracy was one of the worst forms of governance possible, along with tyranny and oligarchy. Thomas Jefferson, in his own interesting way, expressed a similar sentiment. Listen to any Clown World heathen, like fake US Secretary of State Anthony Blinken, and within two or three minutes some platitude about democracy will be incanted with sacred solemnity. Lama masterfully walks his readers through the history of the Money Powers-driven West and the Powers’ absolute obsession with democracy. He exposes the clear pattern of the ruin of nations by eliminating religious and nationalistic controls and replacing them with democratic perversions, degeneracy, and usury. The end result, in France, America, or India, is a form of slavery and societal pillaging. That is why all attempts to democratize government, such as the US’s 17th Amendment, allowing for the supposedly “free” popular election of Senators, act to subvert freedom, prosperity, and true representation of and for the people. Lama mathematically demonstrates, on page 88, that “from a socioeconomic standpoint, democracy is the worse form of governance throughout history. That is natural, as it was made by the Money Powers for the Money Powers.” As much as the book is a warning to those who need it and might hear it, it is equally an optimistic appraisal of where the majority of humanity stands moving forward in this century. In between and all around, a history is woven—from the ancient world, through the Middle Ages, through the horrors of the Enlightenment, across the financial capitalistic terror of Bretton Woods, ending with the emergence of multipolarity. Lama nicely sums up the where-we-are-now as follows, from page 20: “The current global geopolitical clash is in essence a struggle between the colonial powers wishing to preserve the Bretton Woods system that facilitates siphoning the wealth of nations and sovereign nations striving for independence and an end to a millennium of their oppression.” If that statement confounds one, then there is all the more reason to read the book as the patterns and methods of oppression are pointedly discussed. That discussion raises historical observations seldom called to anyone’s attention. For instance, from pages 89-90: “Wealth pillaged from the colonies was not pillaged for the colonialist nations, but for the bankers and shareholders of the exploiting companies based therein; that is, the Money Powers.” That is why, as English corporations looted African, Asian, and American colonies, the lives of many Londoners were little better than those of the poor natives in Africa, Asia, and the Americas, as expressed through the eyes and words of many Dickensian characters. It’s a concept perhaps many American Millennials and Zoomers can relate to today. Lama explains the mechanisms of this universally immiserating phenomenon in much the same way Michael Hudson, Steve Keen, David Graeber, Alexander Macris, and other authors do. At present, in a desperate bid to save their empire, the Money Powers rely on the postmodern versions of three time-tested tactics: fake money (the Petrodollar), “virtual reality” (the deceptions of the media), and fading US military power (CVN-78 to Palestine, etc.). As Lama illustrates very well, the events of the past two years have dispelled the myth of American military invincibility and the necessity of the Dollar as the world reserve currency. All that really remains are the lies of Clown World virtual reality. And those necessarily collapse upon crashing into actual reality. Page 40: “When virtual reality meets reality on the battleground, T-Bills and ETFs stand little chance against flying missiles and artillery shells.” I mention CVN-78, the USS Gerald Ford aircraft carrier, for a timely reason. In between the publication of Lama’s book and my review, the US Empire dispatched the Ford, the Ike, and other ships, planes, weapons, and troops toward Occupied Palestine to assist Israel in potentially exterminating some of the poorest people in the world. (The virtual reality liars may tell it otherwise.) Yet, given the condition of the Ford, one almost wonders if its true mission isn’t more in keeping with that of the Lusitania, the Maine, the Arizona, or the Liberty. From page 244: “The $13 billion Gerald R. Ford ‘has yet to demonstrate that it can effectively’ defend the aircraft carrier from anti-ship missiles and other threats, according to the Pentagon’s testing office.” There is, one supposes, nothing like live testing. There’s a healthy supply of many other examples of Western evil like that. I leave most for the delighted discovery of the reader. Here’s one more. Russia’s SMO in Ukraine, forced by NATO, the US, and the Money Powers, revealed many things the virtual realists would prefer people forget about. Following a brief mention of the horrors of Imperial Japan’s Unit 731, Lama comes to a natural conclusion on page 196: “Not surprisingly, with the head start acquired from ‘research’ of Unit 731, the U.S. is today the leader in bio warfare, with its bio labs dotting the globe. U.S.-controlled bio labs in Ukraine have performed experiments similar to those of Japan’s Unit 731.” One is reminded of the nature of many of those experiments as told by JRK, Jr. in his excellent book on Tony Fauci’s miserable life and work. The COVID+ evil from those labs was but one of hundreds of examples of illicit US biowarfare necromancy, a legacy that predates the empire’s acquisition of the 731 war criminals (“paperclipped” into the fold like so many SS Nazis). In the reading, should a Westerner begin to feel a pang of slight guilt, it is because, while he himself might be blameless, extreme wickedness has been perpetrated in his name and on his watch. Again, now would be a grand time to turn guilt into cleansing action, letting the suffering of Oliver Twist give way to the resistance of a Gaza or Donbass freedom fighter. But whether anyone finally awakens in the West, the changes in the world already proceed apace. Much of Why The West Can’t Win is an exemplifying comparison of factors and a recitation of exactly why the West can’t. Much or most of it comes down to sovereignty versus slavery and reality versus fantasy. Lama does much in the way of contrasting the hype for and the reality of the West with that of Russia and China, perhaps the two best examples of the free multipolar domain. On page 129, Table 5, Lama makes a quick comparison of the financial condition of the Russian and US economies. While Russia is, in a word, “healthy,” the US is a basket case. Yet, in Table 6, he shows that the fake Western ratings agencies assign the greater risk of investment to Russia, with the US, of course, being “AAA” and “Prime.” This is but one of many exposures of the prime, AAA, exceptional bullshit that underpins postmodern Western existence. The captive West cannot win and has really already lost because of factors such as money and monetary policy, technology, human rights, manufacturing capacity, education, and healthcare—all of which are covered in detail. These deficiencies are generally interrelated as Lama demonstrates in various places, including his take on education in the US. On page 123 he writes (emphasis mine): “Many individuals who have great potential are effectively discarded. The consequences of this can already be observed in the Military Industrial Complex (MIC), which since 2000 has been unable to develop any competitive weapons system.” In addition to boondoggle false flag fodder like the Ford, the discarding of talent speaks to a large part of the character (or lack thereof) of the postmodern American nation. Richard Hofstadter correctly titled his 1963 book about anti-intellectualism in mid-20th Century America. Since then, things have continued to shift towards outright hostility against genuine higher intelligence. There is a reason why China wisely and officially embraced Wang Huning and why America stupidly but effectively shunned Chris Langan. Already, the results of this shift speak for themselves. While I cannot nail down an exact religious affiliation, Lama’s book is replete with positive morality. It would behoove Christians to read the book and take stock of where they ontologically and physically stand in several areas—particularly areas imbued with a creeping sense of discomfort. While we cannot control the past or the actions of others, we can and must live today as we plan for tomorrow, all while accounting for the intentions of other parties. Those of us in the West must realize that the centuries-long malfeasance of our hijacked culture is losing and will lose, as it deserves to; we, however, need not go down with the sinking ship. Imagine our boot resting upon the throat of a wicked little parasite. Fadi Lama is to be praised for his insight, research, wit, and bravery in assembling an outstanding volume dedicated to intelligence, truth, dignity, and justice. Please buy and read Why The West Can’t Win. This piece was originally published at PerrinLovett on October 18, 2023.
‘Say it with me, baby,’ she almost cooed. Pon-chik, п-о-н-ч-и-к, ponchik. Ooey-gooey fried sugar, the donuts of my motherland. Made the right way—unlike yours. Well, the Crispies almost do it, the Dunkers not so much. Ponchik.’ ‘Say? I say it’s time to throw this phone in the river,’ he said, looking ruefully at the aging Android. ‘Nothing but robocalls, threats, and idiots calling in.’ ‘Say, ponchik,’ she again almost cooed, leaning up towards his face and sliding her hands inside his jacket and around his ribs. ‘Pon—’ ‘Ponchik,’ he finally uttered. ‘Good boy. But, no, please do not pollute our beautiful river. Just dump it in one of those recycling bins maybe? I think there’s one at the university. I know there’s one at the mall. Malls. And we probably just passed one or more in the park.’ She paused for a moment and batted her eyes at him. ‘And did you get the other new phone this week?’ ‘I did,’ he said. ‘The silly flip phone design?’ ‘Silly, old, plain, and simple,’ he admitted. ‘Perfect for family and very close old friends back in the distant country. I call it the family phone, in fact. And if that number ever leaks to the wider old dark world, then I can just scrap it and get another cheapy. The crap calls and texts and old address emails all go to this ancient phone anyway. No real reason to keep it.’ ‘Then don’t,’ she said. ‘Flip for the family, and for us, the sleek, sexy new Huawei.’ ‘The sexy Huawei? And you just called me, baby, you know, right? We’ve got eye batting, long close stares, and you keep breaking the touch barrier. Trying to tell me anything?’ He locked his eyes with hers and imparted another little kiss to her cute nose. ‘I like you,’ she said, holding his gaze and then subtly biting her lower lip. ‘Like me how much?’ ‘Like a lot, and I’ll tell you all about it,’ she said, happily snapping back and upright again. ‘Maybe with a ponchik! But first, you will tell me about that last call, which I know had something to do with the news, your presentation, and your vacillating mood. So tell me.’ ‘Ponchik,’ he said. ‘Tell me about the call. Why you ended it like you did. And why you want to send the phone to the fishies. Walk and talk.’ Because he thought he could at this point, and that he should, and because he wanted to, he wrapped his arm around her slender waist before turning towards the southwest. She responded as he had hoped she would, wrapping herself around him, and resting her head on his shoulder as they began to inch forward. And so, as the afternoon sun slowly began to fade and the shadows grew longer around them, they exited one park for another in a beautiful city of parks. The bitter cold of the previous day had receded to a normal autumn cool, a thrill and a respite. His nose caught a similar olfactory note—something sweet in the changing air. Part of it was her, her hair and perfume, though something reminded him of cotton candy. Another couple enjoying the glad end of a brilliant day, semi-entwined, they walked on. And he began to tell her. ‘You are perceptive, baby,’ he said. ‘I like you for many reasons, that being just one. A curious, intelligent, and well-read woman. Beautiful to top it all off! Svelte body to carry a sharp mind and a gorgeous face to wrap a keen wit. Back home, away, I used to know a smart Persian woman. She was high above the local average, but she —even with her lineage— had never even heard of the Shahnameh. I meet you and, of course, you’ve read Ferdowsi. Full of surprises and all of them pleasant. You’re prettier than her too … and she was pretty.’ ‘She wasn’t part of the problems, then?’ ‘Well, she was, in an indirect way, connected to them. But, no, hers was a different outlook. Different from the norm. Maybe it wasn’t such an indirect way, but I could never fault her. If she had an inclination for the usual blindness, she always kept it to herself. Unlike most others. When they could be bothered inclining any which way. It’s strange, but since I’ve moved here, they seem more disposed than ever to inform me of their notions and positions. That last old acquaintance who just called informed me, concerning the late developments, something along the lines of, Why should we care about Jews and Muslims killing each other? I just hope they exterminate themselves.’ ‘That’s beyond callous,’ she said with a sigh. ‘It’s just wrong. So supposedly Christian Americans care nothing for Christian Middle Easterners? Or anyone else? It speaks to something wicked beyond mere ignorance. Your deflection of reluctance, as kind as it is, may gloss over regrettable malice. That’s becoming almost the universal assessment of them. Are they really like that?’ ‘Many of them, sadly,’ he said. ‘In ways. It’s certainly the propensity of the ruling clown elite, a frame of mind without a gloss. But as for the common people, my people especially, while there is a bitterness to it, it’s usually more the case of a lack of interest mixed with hasty, unthoughtful words. A malingering frame of mind, perhaps. Others are blind, willfully blind homers, as we call them, terminally provincial. In their defense, they have a lot of problems, most of which they don’t know or want to understand how to handle.’ ‘Even when something on the outside affects them in more ways than they know?’ she added. ‘Particularly then,’ he said. As they walked, they alternated their gazes between the river on one side and the changing grounds on the other. They slowed to watch men working with a small crane as they erected a tubed metal snow slide for the coming winter. There was considerable clanging and clattering. A hint of diesel mixed with the cotton candy and spurred them to walk on. ‘You were, you know, speaking to them today,’ she said. ‘As if to channel something, maybe something subconscious their way. Pardon me, or not, but I think many of them are, if only a little and not all their own fault, stupid and evil. What else could possibly explain the mass missing of so many points? Such an important lesson? Such a critical set of facts?’ ‘Your guess is as good as mine, and maybe better, pretty girl. Still, I will defend them because I think I really know their hearts and minds. And their situation. Being down and out, having lost control of their land, and knowing they are locked into a reality they don’t like acts to desensitize many of them. The smarter ones know, at some level, what has truly happened. Where they are and where they’re headed. The retreats into the past and the closing of minds and charities are in many ways defensive. Their predicament is almost identical, if not entirely, to that of the Palestinians. Both peoples are hemmed in, hated, and dehumanized. They have both lost their sacred lands. All of it caused by the same sort of demonic people-haters, many of them being one and the same, afflicting both peoples and so many others beyond. It is remarkable that at least the one group fights back. Maybe theirs is the worst plight, that they understand their backs are against the wall and rifles are being loaded in front of them. As I keep saying, I am afraid things will have to worsen back home before they can come to a similar determination. That is, if time allows.’ ‘All the more reason to pay damned attention!’ she said somewhat indignantly. ‘What is the problem? Where do they get their news and information?’ ‘From the CIA mostly. As distributed throughout the mainstream media and the political and cultural quote-unquote leadership. As with most important issues, with this latest episode, every fake, gay politician and all the fake news sources repeat the same lies. It’s nearly uniform across the combined West. One would think that after so many other deceptions they would be on guard, but one must never underestimate the gullible naivete of Americans. I’m not even a little relieved to watch them fall for the Nine-Eleven BS again, almost from the same script, without thought or question. I wonder if many of them have noticed that, at the drop of the hat, they’re commanded to switch their allegiance from Ukraine to Israel. In their fog and delusion, they are rather truth-resistant. And, in this case, it fits with the Christian-Zionist doctrine many of them have held for a century or more.’ ‘Which may be pro-Zionist, but certainly isn’t Christian. Blindness,’ she huffed. ‘But the truth is out there if they could be bothered to look for it. To read and see as someone put it. The majority of the world knows what’s going on. Recap. Walk me through just the more recent examples they can’t see.’ ‘Okay. I’m assuming that what happened in Palestine the other day was either facilitated by a Western-style breakdown of competence or a green flag—not a false flag—in order to goad the attack and further goad the wicked Yankee empire into action. Whether that’s against Iran or just helping to genocide the poor people of Gaza I do not know. It looks or feels like someone may, for once, be playing the master conmen with some grand reverse trap. There’s too much going on, too fast for anyone to see clearly. Only time will tell how it all works out in the end. But my point is that when Hamas was given the chance or when they sensed weakness, they were ready. And they pulled off something amazing, even if only for a day or two. Something almost completely unheard of, almost unimaginable.’ ‘Do you think they’ve been set up?’ she asked. ‘And do you suppose they knew or suspected that was the case and decided to press their luck?’ ‘The former, perhaps. The latter, most likely.’ He thought for a moment and continued: ‘As for their luck, they really have nothing to lose. They’ve been cornered and cornered again, closer and closer. Kind of like my people, but much worse, on much harsher terms. By conventional wisdom, they should be in the active process of being exterminated, but somehow they stubbornly hang on. For all their hardships they still have children and families. Facing much less dire circumstances, my Americans appear to have given up and are going along with their destruction. They’ve suffered a net casualty loss equal to the whole population of Gaza in just the past five years or so. It’s almost impossible to discuss it intelligently with the survivors. With all their credit cards, all their guns, and all their talk, all they do is sit, suffer, and die off. ‘With the real prospect of faster elimination hanging over their heads, in, again, far worse shape, and with far fewer resources, the Palestinians resist. I think they know their days are or could be numbered—a short number either way— and so they are determined to either free themselves, catch the sympathy of someone who can help free them, or else go down swinging. It’s inspiring in a terrible and sad way. They passed the Sun Tzu 101 test; they know themselves and their enemy. And they accept and incorporate advances in modern, or postmodern warfare. They just did many or most of the things I’ve been observing and discussing for years.’ ‘That is the exciting part, the really inspiring part,’ she added. ‘It is. They watched and learned all the lessons. Those from their own land, and from Afghanistan, Armenia, Iran, Syria, and Ukraine. And they applied them. That triple insertion attack was brilliant and beyond anything they should have been able to pull off or that anyone would have assumed they were capable of. Of the combined air, land, and sea assaults, the land and air campaigns were the most important and the most effective. As was reaching out in many directions simultaneously. For a while, they effectively doubled the operational size of Gaza and almost looked like they were trying to create a bridge from there to the West Bank. ‘Their rocketry is beginning to resemble something the regular military of a nation-state might possess. Learning all the right lessons, over just the past few years, they’ve made incredible advancements in range, accuracy, and power. And the quantity of the things is a quality of its own. Since 2021, their missile attacks have had a real effect—more than just one. And now they’ve incorporated drone warfare into their tactics. At first, I thought I was watching footage from Ukraine. But they’ve managed to assemble a host of capable devices which now allow them to perform aerial monitoring as well as bomb troop formations and destroy tanks and facilities. All or most of these weapons are homemade, built under draconian sanctions and surveillance. I heard rumors, and I’ve now seen videos proving they also have shoulder-fired anti-aircraft missiles—mostly older, maybe Soviet-era models, as modified. And they probably have obtained more, possibly much more indirectly from the evil empire by way of Afghanistan or Ukraine. ‘The lightning strikes on the ground were equally impressive. The operational planning, well executed. Taking territory, inflicting damage, and destroying or capturing equipment and personnel. The Merkava, the Iron Dome, Net-a-yahoo’s wicked mind, the greatest surveillance state, and the vaunted legend of the IDF itself have all been exposed as lacking. Virtually no one back in the States gets or accepts the motivation, but taking hostages, military and civilian, makes a degree of sense. I read about a suggested prisoner exchange, though the idea of human shields is manifestly obvious—though I’m not sure the tactic will work as advertised or threatened. I don’t think Israel puts too much value on those people and, unfortunately, we’ve already heard the IDF is willing to shoot through the human shields, par for their rapacious course. I know it would have been extremely difficult, but they should have grabbed one or two higher-value pledges. At any rate and most interestingly, for a day, they managed to turn the casualty tide. Like my people, the Palestinians are always on the lop-sided receiving end of the conflict. I really and truly wish more folks back home would bother to learn a little about the history of the conflict, especially before they fall for lies and start ranting on my phone.’ ‘Do you think any of your Southerners will learn anything from this episode?’ she asked. ‘A very few,’ he said with some difficulty. ‘The majority either don’t know what to think or can’t be bothered to care. As such they cannot appreciate what has happened and what it might look like if they ever tried to fight back. The equivalent would be if men of, say, South Carolina turned off the TVs, got off their couches, and stormed Fort Jackson. Or Fort Rainbow or whatever it's called now. While scattering the carpet-baggers on foot towards Charlotte. While taking some homo-pedo politician prisoner. And all while peppering Atlanta with ballistic missiles. For now, however, I assume they’re content to talk about the past, vote for failed idiots who hate them, overdose, and die.’ ‘And I assume you will, for a little while longer, still keep trying to reach them? To light a fire or two?’ ‘I’m trying. I’ve an idea to write some science fiction stories about Robert E. Lee time traveling into the present and trying to wake the remnant based on what is actually going on these days.’ He paused for a moment and scanned the streets. ‘Here, come on! We’ve got a bus waiting right now, so let’s make the return trip a little faster. A tram with an open door looks like a sign.’ They quickly boarded the neat, clean bus, and soon found themselves rolling and swaying down the wide street. Having walked for over an hour since lunch, their feet relished the short break. But over the rising and falling hum of the engine, the chattering of fellow passengers, and the sporadic announcements of the driver, their conversation continued: ‘With your sci-fi, couldn’t you pick someone with a positive Win Above Replacement rating? What about the, the, um, General Bear-robard? Er, Beauregard?’ she asked. ‘W-A-R means about as much to them as any other set of statistics,’ he said with a slight sigh. ‘You, again, continue to impress, young miss. But for them, math equals bad or something, and, at any rate, Lee is sacrosanct. Yes, PGT, Forrest, and Jackson were the highest-rated generals, not so far off the exaggerated but winning legend of Grant. Of the bunch, I guess that Forrest would have best realized the importance of what we’re discussing and been able to rapidly implement something similar. Here again, I think Lee would get the message too. That’s where my stories will kind of go. If they go.’ ‘And as things in reality go, do you now suspect Palestine will have hell to pay?’ she asked. ‘Continuing to impress, I hope, I suppose they will. If part of their objective was to lure in outside support, from Hezbollah or Iran, for instance, then the results have been a little lacking so far. And now the blockade begins.’ ‘True, so far as we can see. But we cannot see very far or very well. Things are heating up all over,’ he said. ‘The counterattack and siege is on, preplanned or otherwise. If the war can’t be broadened beyond Israel, then I suppose the powers will be content to either devastate or completely cleanse and obliterate Gaza. They’ve cut off everything from the outside, including food and power. They’re carpet bombing apartment blocks and hospitals and now they’re not even roof-knocking as a warning. They’ve literally told the civilians to get out or die. We have the real threat of another genocide in the making if things don’t change. Of course, the empire that couldn’t be bothered to defend its own ship from an IDF attack, or ever secure its own porous border, can instantly dispatch a carrier task force to help murder more innocent people trapped in a giant concentration camp. One assumes the queer Republicans, their Tantric bitches, and that braindead AI fake president are salivating over more blood for their master. At least they, their media pets, and their allies have again been shown to be exactly the worthless, foaming-at-the-mouth, murderous scum they are. Screaming and whooping for war crimes. All the kinder, saner, and wiser countries are, of course, calling for diplomacy. But things may get very ugly, even more than normal, very fast—regardless of whether or not anyone else intervenes or the battle spreads. One glimmer of hope is that Hezbollah’s boast of possessing semi-modern anti-ship missiles turns out to be more than a boast. They or the Revolutionary Guard. What terrible hope.’ ‘Do you think they could do it?’ she asked. ‘Possibly, but it’s doubtful. The shot probably isn’t in the cards anyway. Who knows? The Confederacy certainly can’t do that or anything else of value,’ he said. ‘Sink the Ford!’ she almost sang. ‘A fantastic, if fantasy battle cry. Let me ask your opinion—what do you think of the overall odds? For the evil alliance?’ ‘It’s hard to say, though we know they lose in the end,’ he said. ‘They can’t beat China. I think they’re beginning to accept that. They know they can’t even touch Mother Russia or do anything except make her stronger. I think even Iran is now beyond their reach in terms of victory. They can still cause much damage and instability.’ Looking eagerly out the window at something, he took her hand at the next stop. ‘Let’s get off here,’ he said, leading her to the doors. ‘And walk back to the office?’ she asked. ‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘Somewhere in the other direction first.’ ‘Somewhere where and what?’ she asked as they began walking down another street. ‘Somewhere and something we’ve already talked about,’ he said. ‘Or, if we like, it can be a surprise!’ ‘Very well then,’ she said happily. A block onwards, she asked, ‘No Samson option?’ ‘I think that is more of a word spell, like the rest of the lies, than any kind of operational capacity. And I don’t see the GAE being able to contribute that way either. Whereas the one is built purely on a myth, the other is dissolved in a mire of incompetence and lost engineering ability. No, it stays conventional, and it looks like a long, painful, if losing battle for the alliance. I’m not even sure they can take Gaza, as we’re talking about the people defeated by the Taliban—no disrespect to them. And the other fronts, ignored or otherwise, still burn away.’ ‘Except in America,’ she said. ‘Except there,’ he said, clarifying, ‘as concerns the Americans. North America is an active front, it's just that my people won’t join the fight. Not yet, so long as a little material comfort is left to them in their decline and despair. I really hope they don’t end up in the exact same situation, with mere desperation as the only alternative to extermination. Time will tell. And now I think it’s ponchik time.’ They came to a stop on the sidewalk, and she asked, ‘Ponchik time?’ He pointed up at a sign and said: ‘П-о-н-ч-и-к О-в-а-я, Ponchik Oviah. Your favorite donut shop. Three for two-forty. We’ll split the third one and have some coffee.’ ‘Those things are five hundred calories each!’ ‘Ooey-gooey fried calories! With coffee. Or tea. And you were going to tell me how much you like me.’ Even as he began to reach for the door, she pulled his hand back. Right there, squeezing him tight, she planted a long and fairly lecherous kiss on him. After a minute or more, and one hoot of approval from a passerby, she tenderly broke off her affections. ‘What does that say?’ she asked as he temporarily reeled as if from a soft, sweet-scented blow. ‘That says Mississippi gals have stern competition!’ he finally exclaimed, still feeling a rush running up and down his spine. ‘You have—’ ‘I have no competitors, my sweet babydoll,’ she cooed—it was definitely a coo this time, though tinged with a command of almost haughty authority. ‘But I will have tea. With ponchik!’ ‘And I,’ he said smugly, ‘will have more of your explanation of how much you like me.’ Outside the little shop, traffic buzzed and the sun slowly sank. Inside, murmurs of warfare gave way to nectarous talk about surprising, unlooked-for delight. As several kinds of sugar flowed into the early evening, a happy bear on a circular wall sign smiled down on a blissful unfolding. Another worthy exchange was made. As more of a refreshing exercise of contraction than a self-demonstration of strength, the man flexed his triceps as he pushed himself back from the railing. Away to his left on the bridge, a few hasty autos competed with the steady whistling of the breeze. He inhaled fresh autumn air and opened his eyes. The river was still there, beneath and before him, slowly churning along that winding loop around the central city. Further away, over the tree-covered hill, the high tower of the main administration building stood proudly against the cloudy, gray sky. Another colorful leaf, blown from a younger birch in the park, bounced playfully off his ear. Momentarily glancing over his right shoulder, he observed the leaves joined once again by a swirling shower of small, fluffy snowflakes. His eyes drifting downwards, he saw the slush was beginning to stick on the bike path, with its green hue blending and fading with the surrounding red bitumen and the white lines of orderly division. An esplanade light flickered. And, tightening her grasp on his arm, a woman, a younger woman, wellborn and alluring, spoke again. ‘You could always decide over dinner,’ she said. ‘You have no schedule to keep, regarding those now distant matters. Or have your thoughts condensed already? Once again? Or nothing?’ ‘Dinner, tonight or tomorrow or even later, may change my resolve, but I think I have decided now,’ he replied. ‘And it’s something between all and nothing?’ she questioned. ‘True,’ he said, pausing to fully look at her face. ‘I’ll give them something softer and perhaps more enlightening than mere pablum. For now, I suppose. All that is happening affects them as much as us. More so in many ways. But they and their part are rather distant, as you correctly put it, at this point. I consider their overall level of reception as well.’ ‘For those who still can and do read?’ she asked. ‘The few?’ ‘Far fewer than I would have liked,’ he said. ‘In their place, a host of timid watchers. To view is to see what is shown. To read is to see what is and what might be. To think.’ ‘So much— All of those things you discussed at the forum, they all weigh in your mind, don’t they? As it concerns your past,’ she said as her hand smoothed the fabric of his jacket over his shoulder blade. ‘You, bless you, still feel a shepherd’s responsibility.’ ‘In a way, yes,’ he said somewhat slowly as his vision caught a lumbering ferry as it emerged from beneath the bridge. ‘I always did what I could. I still do, I will do — for now, a little while longer. To continue to speak to deaf ears. But another Shepherd once advised, in situations like this, it is better to shake off the dust and move on.’ ‘As you have done,’ she noted. ‘To borrow my father’s nautical phrasing, which you too know, you have transferred the flag. And we welcome it here, an addition of value unlooked for. A delight even. But far away, what is their resistance? What explains their aversion to the obvious?’ ‘Reluctance,’ he said, thinking of the matter. ‘Not fear, per se, or ignorance. Certainly not wicked malice. It is and is not born of a kind of defeat. They linger in a truly forgotten past because the doing so comforts them. As bad as it all is, it will have to worsen before they understand. Rather, before they can bring themselves to admit they understand. Even then, the great question remains as to whether, so admitting and understanding, they may bring themselves to action.’ ‘As you, our voice, and so many others have, and have been for the longest while, urging. There is a measure of ignorance, if not of outright idiocy. They continue to ignore —from the same root— the proofs, the examples, and all available lessons.’ She was making determined eye contact with him, a growing habit. He liked her company for many reasons. ‘With you as our prosecutor, we all stand convicted,’ he said, returning her near stare. ‘Our discussion today ran along similar lines I have discussed with them before. Not trusting enemy information for one thing. Especially not to trust it as a lone arbiter while shucking aside all other news and voices and palpable evidence. The few get the importance, but the many still do not. For and to them, while perhaps little is lost in the way of translation, there is a certain immateriality concerning my attempts. Or anyone’s. Pupils who steadfastly refuse the lessons.’ ‘And what lessons!’ she exclaimed with a sudden voice to stir the swirling petioles. ‘Within a war no less.’ ‘The list I mentioned this afternoon, the long or short of it, came to me almost as I spoke. One seldom gets the chance to see one’s own near future playing out in a realistic, informative fashion. One man’s house is much the same as another’s, in this country or that; bombardment ruins them both. The population of a town, or a region, or even an entire nation, may find good cause to voluntarily uproot and relocate somewhere safer and somewhere they might find a better, viable fit. The martial demonstration, of the traditional explosive variety, and of that newer unrestricted nature, serves as a universal warning.’ He trailed off, extending his head towards hers, a natural urge and motion in mind. His kiss landed gently upon the tip of her nose. She held her position though she uttered a low giggle. But she also held her determination. ‘This country and that,’ she said, ‘both under the same spells cast by the same lowly magicians. Revolutions masked by phantom riotous nonsense, a mere six years apart, were the devices of the same enemy. Do they choose not to see the plain similarity? The exactitude?’ ‘Far away, they, trapped even deeper in their past, even as now mythologized, prefer to concentrate still —after all that has been laid bare— still on the riot, the nonsense, and the grand distractions of the enemy. Again, faulted or otherwise, they maintain reluctance.’ ‘And you will maintain your generous defenses, won’t you? She smiled, leaning back slightly and resting her arm once more on the cold steel of the railing. ‘привет, вы, джентри!’ a deliveryman hailed as his bicycle zipped by, momentarily parting the leaves and flakes and leaving a faint track of green through the accumulating wet powder. His transient passing took a more permanent toll on the noblesse couple. ‘For now? If in a depleted fashion,’ she clarified. ‘For now,’ he concurred; ‘the fleeting words of a man departing, moving on.’ ‘As you move on, belletristically speaking, as you, learning one lesson, removed physically, so let us move on towards that cafe. Let us shake off this dust.’ She began to pull and guide him down the path which eventually emptied into the entertainment district surrounding the stadium. ‘I too have decided. And do not question me, but buttered crab meat paired with pumpkin soup is in order this evening. Warm food and warming wine in answer to the falling snow.’ ‘The soup—’ he began. ‘So, warmth upon warmth, a taste of the zealous culture. For my part, I appreciate it. Cold, dark, though with a new friend, and though of an imprecise time, the change is made. The trade of dejecting dust for revivifying snow — a deal! With wine.’ ‘Deo vindice,’ she said, ‘et vinum consolatio.” Safe within a fortress of harmonization, they walked into the deepening night carefree. Greetings, melody lovers. Today, we will enjoy a bit of an extended Music Minute. Let’s call it the Musical Half-Hour Funtime Festival and Other Words. You’re in luck, as my original intention was to facilitate some form of socioeconomic comparison. Before that, I’d briefly thought about educating a chipmunk as to the workings of a carburetor (of course, instead of listening, the little joker kept crawling into the throttle valve!). Moving along! As for today’s musical links, Mr. Charles Munk and I are working with Ewetube, Yandex, and Goolag to create some sort of auto-translation service so one might read a “foreign” language in one’s native tongue with a degree of reliability. It’s amazing no one thought of this before. If we are successful, say on Ewetube, look for the feature within the little cogwheel symbol next to the “CC” on every video. We’re working hard for you, and Lil’ Chip is pulling overtime. About two months ago, I suggested Americans might benefit from a “Shaman.” The reception was rather positive though I note we are no closer now than we were then. Rather than someone proudly, defiantly proclaiming who we are and where we’re going, we were given the Lunsford treatment, a Clown approved, UTA-repped, and obviously pre-manufactured singing of diversionary lyrics about our problems. And only the problems, skewed narrative-right, and without any hint of a solution. However, in Russia, Yaroslav Yuryevich Dronov, aka, “Shaman,” is still doing what he does best - celebrating all things Russian. I’m going to dissect parts of a recent concert. First, here’s a recent AiF interview with the man. (Cog. Wheel.) Fifteen years of hard, organic work is not the same as instant, AI-propelled “success.” And a nation is a collection of similar people, not a collection of assorted heads-down basketcases. Also, here’s Shaman singing “Государственный гимн Российской Федерации,” the “State Anthem of the Russian Federation,” at another recent concert. Imagine the most popular of ‘Murican pop singers, whoever that is, singing “God Save the South” or the “Star Spangled Banner” for and with 70,000 enthusiastic young American teens and twenty-somethings. I had trouble with visualization too. Do we even have that many young Americans anymore? Now I’m going to focus on two parts and three songs from Shaman’s March 13, 2023 concert in Krasnogorsk, Greater Moscow. Russia’s got talent. (I tried to target the following parts using the “&t=” format, but something would not allow it. For reference, here’s the FULL CONCERT. Skip along as follows, please.) Around timestamp 23:29, he goes among the crowd for a few minutes letting random men, women, and children sing. That was pretty cool, but not as cool as the following consecutive trio of patriotic tunes. At 55:15 he launches “Встанем” (“Let’s Rise” or “Let’s Stand Up”). This is a song about communion with Russian men who fell defending the Fatherland. While Shaman sings, a dancer in military attire performs a physical interpretation. Select translated lyrics:
This is a huge part of the living Russian spirit. Under God’s Grace, they not only honor and remember their heroes and their past, but they actively incorporate their traditions into their modern existence. Immediately following “Встанем,” around 1:01:00 he proceeds into his new and very popular “Я русский” (I’m Russian”). I covered the meaning of those lyrics previously. In short, it is a defiant rallying cry for proud living people. Here one may truly contrast the uplifting celebratory nature of Shaman to the intentional down-in-the-dumps moaning of Lunsford. After the early 1990s, a host of “rich men” settled north of Tula. Rather than selling souls only to complain about “shit” Rubles and tax-based junk food, the Russians unceremoniously ejected the “rich men” from Russia. Now they’re ejecting them from Europe. After “Я русский” comes another rendition of the “Государственный гимн,” at 1:05:28. The English-translated beginning verses:
Here again, we see a common Russian theme: the melding of ancient tradition with the living present and the ardent determination to continue living into the future. Russia is scared in the genuine sense, the Orthodox Christian meaning of the word, and not the freemasonic m-m-muh first ‘mendment meaning. The Russians love Russia to the point of dying and killing to preserve her. Great glory, of the kind God intends for the nations He created and which we are assured will endure even in Heaven. Dignity for all time — not just the marginalized, mythologized past. A free patriarchy in place of an enlightened boarding house. The union is not just of political states, but of kindred people — a nation. The wisdom of the past is carried by the current generations. Pride, not in one’s own selfish interest, but in Russia’s ordained part of The Plan.
Americans, Southerners particularly, should and could have something like this. Will they? I think not, at least, not for the foreseeable future. This gets into postwar Remnant territory and is thus highly speculative. We still lack a few necessary things. But very refreshingly, we appear to be making slow headway. I am pleased to present this: Joyous Sidenote! I just learned that Padraig Martin’s group is planning to place a series of billboards along major Southern thoroughfares in high GAE military recruitment areas with this simple and 100% honest message: "Joining the US Armed Forces is the Gayest thing you can do!" One can look it up if one needs to. In brief: The GAE AF is the largest lgbtP employer in the world; it puts sodomites in leadership positions; it hosts fag queen story hours and fag shows at imperial military bases; it covers up regular sexual abuse atrocities committed by its wicked members against men, women, and children (and probably animals); it pays for tranny sex changes; it makes it a crime to refuse to date trannys; it flies sodomite “pride” flags at imperial embassies worldwide; it names naval vessels after child rapists; from the barracks to Congress, it openly practices satanism; it is the only military that ever dropped an atomic bomb on a church (and in general), and; like sodomy, it exudes hatred of God and His creation: it is the most destructive force on earth. God’s wrath is rightly crashing down upon it. Elsewhere, members of the (Ramzan) Kadyrov family are physically beating down those who blaspheme against Islam — the way our knights used to disabuse degenerates in the West. Christians today can at least speak the Truth to our wicked, blasphemous powers. Martin’s message is in line with what I mean by never serving the enemy. Furthermore, it’s a good rhetorical poke in the eye. GAE = gay, so stay away. We need much more, but at least we still have a little fight in us. And we always have that critical element that goes without saying. Still, Deo vindice. Author’s note: Today, we take a break from the usual fun. Rather than indulge in the groping, vaping, lying antics of well-endowed congressional clowns, the hilarious hijinks of fake “joggers” running over real bicyclists, or the need for a revival of the Dan White Gun Club, we instead enjoy a bit of story-telling from a bygone era. Some might suspect it is tinged with an aura of the pseudo-autobiographical. The boy gradually became aware of three things. First of all, while staring off at someone’s porch lights, and then maybe while glancing up and around, he noticed that dusk had fallen and was even then giving way to full nighttime. Never one to wear a watch, if such a confining thing could be avoided, he had no precise way of knowing the time. At the moment, “kind of dark,” “a little late,” or “around supper time” worked well enough in his head. Further considering the latter description, he was a little hungry. It had been a busy day, or, rather, a busy afternoon that almost without warning fell into the evening. But a dedicated working man, even one only eight or so years old, couldn’t be a clock-watcher. And again, he was sans chronometer. Whether he’d been hired or volunteered for this particular job he just couldn’t remember in the far distant future. The school, one of those delightful Southern academies that magically sprung up during the Sixties, had at times need for fundraising. For something or another. His teacher or the assistant principal had surely explained it. Or was it the Cub Scouts? It couldn’t have been his Little League team, given the time of the year. Forced to look back, as through a dark haze, nearly half a century, he decided— Forty years. It was about forty years earlier. Forty sounded better than fifty, and as sure as his hair was slowly graying, it was closer to the numeric truth. He decided it had to be the school and for generic academic purposes. But what kind of solicitation had him out that night? Chocolate bars certainly come to mind given questions of that nature. That, he thought, was the wrong answer. Also incorrect was the little catalog of Christmas ornaments he could almost picture. In a pinch of creative logic, he firmly decided it had been the list of magazine subscriptions. People read back then and there was seemingly a circular publication for every taste, whim, or fancy. In fact, his list, another kind of catalog, was organized according to the particular interests of the prospective readers. Those were further divided into three master classes: men, women, and children. It was all coming back to him. Each publication had a number or code along with its price. He was assigned a sheet whereby his customers selected their chosen work or works and provided their names and addresses. He could not recall how financial matters were handled, assuming a clearing house billed as needed and, as it concerned him then, after the fact. He was not a born salesman. Where, he had wondered, would one look to find literary patrons? As with many such concerns, he consulted an authority: “Dad, where do I find people to sign up?” “Why don’t you just walk around the neighborhood?” his father suggested. “Knock on doors. There are enough people around here to fill up that sheet.” It was sound advice. University Estates was a large settlement, plenty large enough for his purposes. And it was full of good, decent, literate people — many of whom he knew. It was laid out in three sections, the old, the middle, and the new. Likely sometime in the Fifties, people had begun building in the older parts. Those were located near the eastern edge of the campus. They flowed in a roundabout, up-and-down fashion to the middle section which had probably come along during the Sixties. Both of them hosted a variety of nice houses on acre-ish lots. Most impressively, the old and middle sections both had paved streets. The asphalt ended and gave way to dirt and gravel at the two approaches to the new section, his neck of the woods. There, beginning, he supposed, in the Seventies, the houses and the yards became larger and further apart. It was at that end of the area that the Estates name earned its keep, with each lot being a minimum of five acres. Owing to something, his parents had built their house at the then extreme eastern end of the last road. His was, for a time, literally the last house. As such, it bordered on, and he considered his backyard to include thousands of acres of University forest and agricultural test field land. In those days, like any civilized man, he was accustomed to entering and exiting the house by the back door. A turn to his right, or walking straight ahead, meant entering his vast playground, hunting fields, and imaginary worlds. Of course, that afternoon, he’d turned to the left and walked down the driveway and then up the road leading to the other houses, and eventually, to the college and town. He knew all the routes by heart, having walked and biked them many times, sometimes with friends and sometimes alone. America was then safer, saner, and more civilized, and no one had yet thought of ten thousand phantom dangers to keep children inside and under constant surveillance. Somehow, against all odds and all the concerns of the professional hand-wringers, he (and virtually all the other children) had survived that blissful nightmare of freedom. That day, for whatever reason, he’d left his mildly customized Huffy where it rested under the carport, and set forth on foot. Many steps were needed going there and back again. His future self, afflicted with many cares, could not place what kind of afternoon it was. A Saturday would have been ideal. Therefore, he concluded it must have been a weekday, and thus, the end of a school day. Regardless, on he had walked. Naturally, he immediately took a shortcut and his first stop was at the Wilson’s house next door. A path down through his own garden field, across a railroad tie bridge over a small creek, and up through the Wilson garden led him to their backdoor (where he generally entered, with or without a knock). Then it was on to other homes all across the newer portion. If he had a plan, it was to keep to the newer and middle parts. He knew the more populated older areas would probably get covered by Sam and Ashley, two boys a year or three ahead of him in school. Part of his memory suggested he had seen one of them at the first crossing where the streets were paved. “You going towards town?” “No, I figured you guys were handling that.” “Good call, kid. Got many yet?” “Seven, eight, nine … the next one is number ten!” “Good job. Getting a little late. See you around.” He couldn’t recall whether it was Sam or Ashley. It was probably Ashley. He was a relaxed lankier youth with a semi-bookish appearance. Sam, while of similar demeanor, was built more like a football player. Both were solid ordinary Mississippi boys of a kind the world would benefit from, then and later, if they were of greater numbers. Or was it Sam? He couldn’t quite recall. Nor, interestingly enough, could he later remember exactly what anyone had ordered. Beyond the Wilsons, he couldn’t even picture any of the many other faces he encountered — with two pretty exceptions. Regardless of his other plans, he purposely steered himself to the houses of both Amy and Edie, two high school girls. As luck had it, they’d both been home! Their ordering was immaterial and he might have even forgotten to mention his magazines. But a hug —that kind of little brother “hello!” hug, maybe with a lingering squeeze— he’d certainly offered that. They’d reciprocated with that wonderful soft, sweet-smelling, sparkly generosity only Mississippi girls can properly muster. The world desperately needs more Mississippi girls. “We can walk to the pond another time. It’s getting a little late.” “Or we could do it now! You’re my favorite cheer—, uh, flag girl, you know.” “I know. And it’s getting late.” “I like your sweater. And your jeans.” He left unsaid his appreciation of their fit. “Thanks. You’re cute.” “You smell like flowers—” “Okay, Shortstuff. Mom said something about your magazines.” “Magazines?” He was remembering something… The door-to-door! Of course. Not long after taking his reluctant leave of Edie (“Ee-dee”, for Edith), he’d turned back out of the middle section and set foot down a meandering dirt drive that ultimately looped back to his road. The shadows grew longer, as did the intervals between houses. After hastily leaving one abode and pausing at the lawn edge of another, he gradually became aware of three things. It was dark. It was considerably cooler. And that dog had followed him. It was a larger breed. A moment earlier, it stood somewhat menacingly between him and the last doorbell. It uttered a low growl, probably a dog’s way of saying, “Nobody’s home. Take your magazines and beat it.” He did, slowly, politely retreating to the lane and the crunch of gravel under his boots. He might have walked off whistling innocently. The beast now inched towards him. A new tactic leaped into his brain. Crouching down, he did what any man does when confronted with a strange canine. He called it to come closer. And with its ears half-cocked but without any snarls, it responded. His hand was extended for inspection. A sniffing earned a petting that turned into him having to sit on the road and scratch a shaggy coat from head to tail. Suddenly, his new friend heard something and darted off. Relieved and gladdened by the encounter, and being almost saddened by the departure, it was about that time he really first observed the darkness. And the creeping chill of mid-fall air. He’d prepared for the weather in advance. Like the fashionable Edie, he was wearing jeans atop his cowboy boots. Over his long-sleeve t-shirt, with or without a polo collar, he was wearing his favorite vest, the beige one with the orange pocket and edge markings. Imagining he could almost see his breath, he calculated the temperature to be somewhere in the upper fifties. He also roughly calculated the time. That last house was the very last one, and he soon trotted off towards home. Perhaps only half an hour later, he was at the table over something hot. Time progressed as it did. The long years since, many of them, were spent on another kind of odyssey, one not dissimilar to the early quests of wandering Thorongil. He and the great king had experiences and realizations of differing sorts. That thought was driven home, perhaps for the final time, as he walked out of the customs office. Pyotr from the forum was waiting for him in the public area of the concourse. “We meet, at last, my digital friend!” the man exclaimed happily. “Welcome to civilization! As I mentioned on the phone, we are eagerly awaited back at the office. A special party, now with a special guest. You’ll get a sneak peek of how everything works. Elsewhere, your room is waiting before the apartment lease is signed. All is ready. But tell me, how was the long route through Istanbul?” “It was the long route, for certain. Before we get into all that, I was wondering if I might grab a magazine and take a short walk. And, Lord, this is like going back in time! Started at one MSU, only to come, as if back home, to another. Hello, my new old friend.” Through the doors to the taxi stand, a breeze hit his face, and he noticed three things. It was dark. It was cooler. And that dog— No, the dog was only a memory, the cloudy, rosy reflection of a once-upon-a-time little peddler. We are reminded once again of the words of that great philosopher, Meatloaf: “It was long ago, and it was far away, and it was so much better than it is today.” Then again, as ever, things change. |
AuthorPerrin Lovett is a novelist, author, and small-time meddler. He is a loveable, unobtrusive somewhat-right-wing Christian nationalist residing somewhere in Dixie. The revised second edition of his groundbreaking novel, THE SUBSTITUTE, is available from Shotwell Publishing and Amazon. Find his ramblings at www.perrinlovett.me. Deo Vindice! Archives
April 2024
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