May 01 2023

Apropos Of “Homelands”

     The following comes from The Man With the Miraculous Hands, the story of super-masseur Dr. Felix Kersten and his experiences in ministering to Heinrich Himmler during the years of the Third Reich:

     “Listen, listen to how brilliant it is,” [Himmler] cried. “We have taken Poland, but the Poles hate us. We need real Germanic blood there. The Dutch are of Germanic origin; in spite of their treason, this is undeniable. In Poland they will learn to change their attitude toward us. The Poles will treat them as enemies, because we are going to give their land to the Dutch. So, lost among the Slavs, pursued by their hatred, the Dutch will have to be loyal to us, their protectors. Thus we will have in eastern Europe an entire Germanic population allied to us by necessity. And as for Holland, we will fill it with good young German peasants. And the English will lose their best landing field. Admit it, admit it, only the Fuhrer could find such a perfect solution. Is it not sheer genius?”

     Governments, the most predatory and violent of all human excrescences, have used forced migrations to establish control over an unruly populace. Ponder this in light of the huge population movements of the Twentieth and Twenty-First Centuries.

May 01 2023

Homelands

     Give a man a free house and he’ll bust out the windows – The Rainmakers, “Government Cheese”

     Just a couple of days back, Matt Bracken posted the following graphic:

     Apparently, there’s a mass migration of African Negroes to the Emerald Isle in progress. I wasn’t aware of it until recently. The graphic above states quite plainly what will become of the Irish should that migration be permitted to continue. It also asks a penetrating question:

Don’t the Irish deserve to keep a homeland?

     That word “homeland” has undergone some twisting and stretching in recent years. Some folks use it to mean “where we originated;” some to mean “where we’ve been for centuries;” some to mean “where we want to be.” In the case of Ireland and its native-born population, the meaning is somewhere between the first and second usages: Ireland and Scotland exchanged large fractions of their populations long ago. Nevertheless, for at least a millennium, Ireland has been occupied by a people consistent in heritage and culture, overwhelmingly white and Christian.

     The African diaspora (my fingers badly wanted to type “disaster” and very nearly succeeded) that has addressed the Emerald Isle, if permitted to continue, might overwhelm that native population completely. The numbers involved are convincing.

     No First World nation that has allowed the mass immigration of African blacks has benefited by it. No land that has endured such an influx has not suffered. Heightened crime, social pathologies, and political turmoil always follow. Ireland will not be exempt.

     Now let’s look at another homeland of interest: the nation of Israel.

     The state of Israel was born shortly after World War II, in the region that constituted classical Judea and Samaria as they existed in the time of Christ. It was a bloody birth, though it needn’t have been so. The UN, aware that a mass of European Jews had migrated to the region after the war, decreed a partition of Palestine intended to create two nations: Israel and Transjordan (now just Jordan). The Arab / Muslim population of Palestine resisted unsuccessfully, and the rest is history.

     The Jews who populated that new nation hadn’t “always lived there.” They hadn’t “lived there for centuries.” But it was where they wanted to be. Geographically, it was an element of their heritage and remained important to their religion. They established a Jewish state there by force of arms and have succeeded in holding it despite several attempts by neighboring states to eject them.

     Even so, Israel many non-Jewish residents. In particular, the Arab / Muslim population of Israel is quite large: about 20% of the country’s population. Some of the troubles that have beset Israel have flowed from militant members of that fraction, with assistance from the surrounding Arab / Muslim states.

     The Jews of Israel, and their supporters worldwide, maintain that Israel is the Jewish homeland and must be maintained and respected as such. While their claim has historical support, it’s dismissed by their neighbors and argued against by others worldwide.

     So in one case, we have a native population that has been on the ground for many centuries, which is threatened by an influx of Africans. In the other, we have a population descended from a millennia-long diaspora, which partly displaced the residents and culture of that place about eighty years ago and established a wholly different social and political structure there. Yet both these lands are claimed as homelands by those who currently constitute their dominant culture. Given such a divergence of usages, is it possible to make something consistent out of the “homeland” argument?

     Is there a coherent argument for ethnic homelands that would cover both cases? How about cases that aren’t yet “settled” in any sense? Do the Romany have a homeland? How about the Amerinds? What about populations that have colonized and conquered places far from their points of ethnic origin…such as the Euro-Caucasian settlers of North America?

     There are a number of generally-agreed-upon homelands, conceded to their populations and kept safe from immigration. The Andaman Islands are one such. There are several communities in Northwestern Canada, Alaska, and the Aleutian archipelago, where entry is tightly restricted. But the homeland argument isn’t about those places and their peoples. It focuses on places that have been made desirable by one population and are now envied by others.

     It’s an argument that won’t be settled in our lifetimes, if ever.

     One final observation for the morning: Some years ago Israel officially conceded a large swath of the “West Bank” district to the Arab-Palestinian irredentists. The Jewish population was removed from the area, but left behind all the infrastructure and enterprise they had already built there. Within a few weeks, the greater part of that infrastructure and enterprise had been reduced to rubble and flinders by the new “owners.” They were crying poverty and demanding “aid” immediately thereafter.

     Draw your own conclusions.

     No one admits publicly, and hence public opinion does not admit, that ingratitude is the norm. It is astounding that countless benefactors allow themselves to be persuaded over and over that ingratitude with the resultant hatred is a rare and special case. — Helmut Schoeck

Apr 30 2023

An Interesting Use of Body Language Analysis

And, in this case, it does seem to be at least somewhat valid.

Apr 30 2023

A Change Of Scene

     [A short story for you today. A dear friend recently told me something I hadn’t expected to hear from her. It was a sad disclosure of a variety I’ve heard before, about a form of abuse the proudly pious often inflict upon those who haven’t yet received the gift of faith. I consider it a form of Christian Pharisaism. I don’t think God would approve of it any more than do I.
     My friend is teetering, uncertain of her steps. She mentioned Pascal’s Wager, a consideration that people of above-average intelligence but uncertain convictions have pondered for centuries. What will follow, only God knows. But He gives each of us what we need to find our way to Him, which is the theme of the following tale.
     This is from my collection For The Love Of God. — FWP]

     The slicing pain in her back as she flopped against the curbstone jolted Frederica Baskin partway back to consciousness. She became sequentially aware of the rough macadam against her bare legs, the damp grass against her cheek, the lump of her purse beneath her, and the early spring wind that puffed out her satin blouse and gusted up her short leather skirt. She writhed weakly against the chill invasions, eyes closed, all but deaf to the sound of the unmuffled engine receding in the distance.
     It was some time before she regained enough awareness of her surroundings to do anything but stumble about the borderland of oblivion. In a deep corner of her mind she knew she’d been drugged and abused, but the lingering effects of the drug, whatever it was, withheld the full impact of whatever pain there was to feel.
     Her senses returned slowly. There was a foul taste in her mouth, bitter and salty. Her nether parts ached from violation. In her nostrils lingered the cloying acridity of dense smoke and an after-hint of male musk, that the sharp, clean night air only slowly dispelled.
     She opened her eyes to find herself lying across the curb of Helmsford Avenue, on the western edge of Onteora. It was full night.
     She hoisted herself painfully off the street and looked about. No one else was present. The streetlights shone down on a city asleep. The only sound was the thin yowling of a feral cat in search of a mate.
     She swore, struggled to her feet, and shook herself against the April cold. At least she still had her purse and shoes.
     She was far from her Oakleigh apartment. There were no businesses open that she could see. For all her bravado, she wouldn’t smash an alarmed window just to spend the night in a warm cell.
     She swayed a little on her stiletto heels, balance not yet fully regained, and staggered out of the city, toward the shadowed belt of detached homes and tree-lined streets that beckoned from the west.
     There were no lights on in any of the houses she passed. No car passed her on the silent streets. It had to be past midnight, when only such as she were up and about and plying their trades.
     Lurching about in the darkness, she caught a heel in a crack in the walk and fell against a large sign mounted on the lawn of what looked to be a church.

Our Lady Of The Pines R.C. Church
Sunday Masses at 7, 8, 9 and 10AM
Come Unto Him
All Ye That Labor

     From the ache in her loins, she’d been laboring a lot lately, even if the work was unpaid and unremembered.
     With that thought, the details of the night just past flooded back.
     Her Saturday evening had started uneventfully. Unusually, she’d had no clients booked, and had been about to settle in with a trash romance and a bowl of popcorn when the phone rang. The call was from a fraternity of the local state college campus. Six of the boys had taken up a collection and wanted to buy a little fun. Six of them. No rough stuff, the caller promised. She said six hundred, and the caller had agreed without argument. He’d given her an address, and she’d rung off without further thought. Ten minutes later she was in her party clothes and speeding toward the frat house.
     They welcomed her into a den filled with worn but comfortable-looking furniture and decked with sports trophies. A long, low table sported an array of finger foods and a large bowl of punch. She accepted her fee, grabbed a handful of the nibble bait and a paper cup full of punch, and sat between two of her husky young hosts. They smiled broadly and told her to relax.
     Relaxation proved to be involuntary. The punch was spiked with something stronger than alcohol.
     She remembered her incredulity. Why drug her? She was a paid performer. For the fee she’d quoted, she’d have given them any thrill they could imagine. But the thought dissolved into blackness as she succumbed to whatever they’d slipped her. Her last memory prior to waking up in the street was of rough hands pulling up her skirt.
     One more occupational hazard of a woman for hire.
     Out of a vague sense of obligation to her trade, she opened her purse and peered inside. Her wallet nestled among her brushes and cosmetics. To her considerable surprise, she found a sheaf of hundred-dollar bills within it.
     They drugged me, but they didn’t rob me. Too weird.
     She stumbled up the church walk, paused before the tall double doors, and put her hand to the latch. It was unlocked.

***

     The interior of the church was dim. On each of two tables that flanked the altar stage burned a sparse line of candles set in red glass jars, teasing random flashes of color from the tall stained glass panes nearby. Behind the altar burned a Presence lamp shaped like a conventionalized heart. The ruddy light illuminated a single human figure, a girl about Freddi’s age, sitting motionless in a pew near the center of the nave.
     Freddi sidled up to the girl and looked her over as unobtrusively as she could.
     The girl was short, fresh faced, and petitely beautiful. Her clothes were stylish without being flashy. Her lush brown hair bobbed fetchingly around her face. She had the sort of understated, unprovocative glamor that subtly commands the attention of men. She sat perfectly upright, but was so still that Freddi took her for sleeping, until she spied the girl’s open, alert eyes. Those eyes were fixed on the altar. Now and then their lids would flutter closed, but their owner showed no other sign of life.
     The eyes turned to engage Freddi’s own.
     Freddi repressed the impulse to cringe away. There was nothing threatening in the girl’s expression. She gazed at Freddi for a moment, smiled formally, and went back to staring at the altar without speaking. It was as bare an acknowledgement of another person’s presence as Freddi could imagine.
     “What…” Freddi’s voice caught in her throat. “What are you watching for?”
     The girl turned toward her again, expression still pleasant but a hint of puzzlement in her eyes. “Nothing.” This time, she didn’t turn away.
     Uncertain of her ground, Freddi slid down the pew, stopped and sat on the wooden bench with about a yard between them. The other girl didn’t move or speak.
     “You got nowhere else to go?”
     The girl smiled. “Not quite. I was thinking about some things.” She held out her hand. “I’m Meg.”
     Freddi took it. “I’m Freddi. You do a lot of thinking here?”
     Meg shook her head. “It’s only my second time here.” She half-turned to face Freddi. “My boyfriend popped the question day before yesterday. He’s Catholic, I’m not. I’ve been wondering whether we’d have any problems because of it.”
     “Is he really into it?”
     A moment of silence flowed past.
     “Yes,” Meg said. “He is. He said it saved his life.”
     “Gonna…what do they call it…convert?”
     Meg’s lips compressed. “That’s what I was thinking about. Do you have any kids?”
     Freddi snorted a laugh before she could think. “No, girls in my…no, I don’t. Why?”
     Meg turned a little away and let her head droop. “I don’t know if it would be fair to our kids for us not to have the same religion.”
     “What’re you, then?”
     “Nothing much. I was raised Jewish, but I never paid much attention to it.” There was a hint of pain beneath Meg’s conversational tone.
     Freddi started to speak again, halted herself.
     “Say, you got a car?”
     Meg looked at her again. “Yes, why?”
     “‘Cause I could use a lift and you look like you could use a cup of coffee. How about it?”
     Meg’s expression went blank. Her gaze flicked briefly to the Presence lamp, then back to Freddi. She rose, picked up a shearling coat from the pew beside her, and slipped it on.
     “Okay.”

***

     They had the Idle Hours Diner almost to themselves. At the counter, a middle-aged man in a beige trench coat hunched over a steaming cup. Two waitresses stood facing one another behind the counter, chatting and waving their hands. At long intervals the headlights of a car would swerve around the corner on which the diner sat, then recede into the blackness of Forslund Drive.
     Meg sipped at her coffee. “So what had you out so late?”
     “I…ah, a little business.”
     Meg’s eyes traveled swiftly over Freddi’s attire. “I see.”
     Freddi suppressed the urge to explain.
     “Do you usually go to church after…business?”
     Freddi flushed. “No, it’s just…hey, look, it’s a tough trade, you know? I got blindsided tonight. They tossed me out in front of that church, near enough, and I’m not exactly dressed for the weather, so…”
     Meg’s expression of grave interest was unchanged.
     “‘They,’ you said?”
     Freddi nodded.
     “So you’re not a Catholic, then.”
     Freddi snorted. “About as much as you.”
     Meg’s eyes darkened. “Maybe not. It’s a pretty set of ideas.”
     Freddi snorted again. “A lot of stupid rules.”
     “Not that many, and not that stupid.”
     “You sound like you’re gonna take the plunge.”
     Meg’s mouth tightened. “I might.”
     “What’s stopping you?”
     “Faith.”
     “Hm?”
     “I don’t know if I have it.” Meg set down her cup and sat back in the booth. “There’s more to being a Catholic than just following the rules. You have to believe some stuff I’m not sure I can accept.”
     “Like God and Satan and heaven and hell?”
     Meg grinned crookedly. “Among other things.”
     “That’s the part I could never get.” Freddi leaned forward and planted her forearms on the table. “Okay, let’s say you learn all the rules and you think they’re just great. Why do you have to believe all that stuff about Jesus and Mary and so on? What’s the point? You’re here, they’re not, you live and you die and…and whatever comes next is gonna happen no matter what you believe. How does faith make it any better…or worse?”
     Meg didn’t answer at once. She looked down at her folded hands, then off into the darkness beyond their window.
     “I don’t know, Freddi. I’m pretty smart. I know that what you believe has no effect on what is. You can believe in unicorns, or dragons, or God all you want, and if there are no unicorns, or dragons, or…or God, there still won’t be any. But maybe that’s the important part. Most people abide by the rules even if they don’t believe in God. I always have. But there’s an empty space inside me I can’t fill just by saying, hey, I’m a good person, I do unto others as I’d have them do unto me, end of story, cut to commercial.” Her eyes returned to rest on Freddi’s with an unusual gravity. “Emil doesn’t have that space. He did, once. He said it was faith that taught him how to fill it.”
     “Emil’s your guy?”
     Meg nodded.
     Just one more reason to take their money, bang ’em, and catch a cab home.
     “Sounds like it’s gonna matter, one way or the other. Hey, how old is he?”
     “Thirty-five.”
     Freddi frowned. The fresh-faced young beauty across from her couldn’t be nearly that old. “This’d be the second time around for him?”
     Meg nodded. “His first wife died in a plane crash.”
     “Ouch.”
     “Yeah.”
     They sat in silence for a long interval. Presently Meg said, “Well, I should try to get some sleep.” She dropped a dollar bill on the table and rose. “Would you like to visit with me for the night? I’d like it very much.”
     Freddi’s mouth dropped open. “Hey, I’m not — wait a second. I’ve got a place of my own, you know?”
     Meg nodded. “I didn’t mean to suggest otherwise. I just thought you might like some company. Someone to have breakfast with. I’ll drive you to your place if you’d rather be alone, but I’d really like it if you’d come spend the night with me.”
     Freddi hunched forward against a sudden, inexplicable pain.
     “Freddi? Are you okay?”
     “Yeah.” She straightened up carefully and did her best to smile. “It sounds kinda fun. You a good cook?”
     Meg shrugged. “Not terribly, but what does that matter? We usually have Sunday breakfast here.”
     We? “Does your guy live with you?”
     Meg shook her head.
     “Okay, let’s boogie.”

***

     Meg’s apartment was in a garden apartment colony in Foxwood. It was spacious and cool, sparsely furnished and excessively neat. The walls were lined with bookshelves, all of them heavy with hardcover volumes. There was no television. It looked much too big for a young single woman, as if it had been rented for a larger group of occupants that had unaccountably failed to appear.
     Freddi stood just inside the door and waited. Meg tossed her purse and coat onto the little sofa and disappeared into the kitchen. The sound of running water followed.
     “You cooking something?” Freddi said.
     “Just tea,” came the reply. “I like a cup of tea before I go to bed. Want one? It’s decaffeinated.”
     “Uh, sure.”
     Freddi went to the nearest of the bookshelves and perused the titles. Most of them were about electronics. There were a scattering of texts on philosophy and history, and a bare handful of paperback novels.
     This chick’s a heavyweight. A looker like her! Go figure.
     Presently Meg came back with a pair of large mugs that trailed steam behind her. She offered one to Freddi and gestured her toward the sofa. Freddi sat and sipped at her mug. It was a delicately minty brew, mildly sweet and gently soothing, the sort of thing one might use to relieve a minor headache.
     “This where I’m gonna sleep?” She tested the springiness of the sofa with her free hand. It resisted nicely.
     Meg shook her head. “No, I have a guest room with a real bed. You wouldn’t want to sleep out here anyway. Feel the draft from the door?”
     No. “Uh, yeah.”
     A few moments’ silence passed before Meg said, “So tell me about your life.”
     “Huh?”
     Meg leaned forward, her face suddenly filled with intensity.
     “Please? I know you’ve, uh, been around. I haven’t. What’s it like to, uh…”
     Freddi locked eyes with her hostess. The young woman was deeply flushed, as embarrassed as she was curious.
     “Freddi,” Meg forced out, “Could you please tell me a little about the way it is when you…let yourself get loose?” Her voice sank still further. “Emil’s the only man I’ve ever…been with.”
     The pain that had surged in Freddi’s chest at the church returned at doubled force.
     “How…” Her voice broke. “How can you…”
     Her tears burst forth as she slumped into Meg’s arms.

***

     Meg seemed to know what she was about, so when her hostess led Freddi to a bedroom, told her to disrobe and climb into bed, she did so. Meg did the same, quenched the light, slipped under the covers and beckoned Freddi into her arms. Freddi hesitated only a moment.
     “I haven’t held somebody this way in a long time,” Freddi murmured. Meg’s body was a warm velvet presence against hers.
     “Hm?” Meg stroked Freddi’s hair and pulled her snugly against her.
     “You know. No sex.”
     Meg grinned. “Same here.”
     “Huh? What about…?”
     “He’s only slept here once.” Meg squirmed onto her side and faced Freddi. “Our first night together. It was nice, but the next morning, we practically fell over one another with excuses about why it shouldn’t happen again.”
     “But you still…do it, don’t you?”
     Meg nodded. “Not often, but yes, we do. Most of our time together is pretty sedate. He’s a very quiet sort.” She paused. “So am I, really.”
     Freddi mused in the warmth and darkness.
     “You think it’s gonna work?”
     “Marriage? Sure, why not? We love each other, we want to be together, we both want the usual stuff. Why shouldn’t it work?”
     “Dunno.” Freddi pondered. “I’ve got a lot of married customers. If it’s so great, why do they need me?”
     “Need might be the wrong word, Freddi.”
     “Yeah.”
     Meg pulled Freddi snugly against her again. “Maybe it’s the right one. I don’t know. I’m twenty-five years old and barely out on my own. What do I know about what happens to a couple after a few years have gone by? Women do turn nasty, sometimes. Hell, men do too.”
     “What about…your folks?”
     Freddi felt Meg’s mouth rise in a grin. “The ultimate married couple. He’s an accountant and estate planner, she’s a homemaker and charity organizer. They live in Harrison, in northern Westchester. He ‘leaves for work’ by walking down the hall to his office. He ‘comes home’ at exactly five-thirty every evening. They eat every meal together, watch TV together, go grocery shopping together, the works. And every one of their neighbors is the same. There hasn’t been a divorce in that town for about a million years. It’s probably against the zoning ordinances.”
     “Do you think…”
     Meg squeezed her gently. “Think what, Freddi?”
     Freddi had to force it out. “Think your pop ever did business with someone like me?”
     Silence elongated between them.
     “I doubt it,” Meg said at last. “But it’s not something I’m really hot to think about.”
     Or talk about, right, babe?
     “What about…Emil?”
     Meg chuckled. “Not a chance. That’s one I don’t have to research.”
     “You really that sure of him?”
     “Yup. And when you meet him, you’ll be just as sure.”
     “Huh? When I meet him?”
     “Yeah, he’ll be here for breakfast. Freddi, this is a pretty big bed, but if you think you’d be more comfortable in the guest room —”
     “No!” Freddi’s arms tightened involuntarily around Meg, squeezing a gasp of surprise from her. “Uh, no, this is really nice. I mean you’re, uh, oh hell, let’s not talk about it, okay?” Unaccountably, she felt her tears rise for the second time that night.
     Meg’s hands rose to cup Freddi’s cheeks. Even in the darkness, Freddi could see the searching intensity of the young woman’s gaze.
     “Freddi,” Meg murmured, “I’m not exiling you, and I’m not going anywhere. Even if we’ve only known each other for a couple of hours, I’m your friend, and I’m going to remain your friend. I practically begged you to stay here tonight, I put you in my bed and climbed in after you, and you’ve got my naked body in your arms right now. I’ll be here when you wake up. I’ll be here when you get out of the shower. I’ll be holding your hand when Emil comes through the door. Whatever he says, and I’ll bet a dollar to a doughnut he doesn’t say one word, I’ll still be your friend. Will you please believe that?”
     Freddi sniffled.
     “Please?”
     “Okay.”
     Meg smiled. “Turn around.”
     Freddi flipped onto her right side. Meg spooned in behind her, one arm curled around her waist. “Good night, dear.”
     “G’night.”
     Sleep was upon her at once.

***

     They awoke to strong April sunlight and immediately started giggling like children. Unable to decide who should shower first, they showered together, giggling and squealing all the while. Freddi was amazed at the thickness of Meg’s hair. It seemed to require a pound of shampoo to lather it properly and half an hour to rinse it out. When they’d toweled off, Meg cast a disapproving eye at Freddi’s nails and proclaimed that manicures and pedicures would be their next undertaking.
     “Okay, where do you go?” Freddi asked.
     Meg frowned. “Don’t be silly. I’ll do you myself. Can I trust you to do me?”
     “Uh, sure.”
     Minutes later Freddi found herself in the kitchenette, her feet in Meg’s lap trapped in foam toe spreaders. Meg labored over her with a craftsman’s concentration, filing the edges of her nails to a perfect smoothness and buffing away her calluses before she reached for her polish. Freddi held completely still, not for the first time wondering if she were imagining the whole experience. When her toenails were finished, Meg went straight on to her fingernails, and with the same degree of care and skill.
     Freddi’s nails were just barely dry when there came a knock at the door. Meg scampered to answer it, revealing a tall, huskily built young man wearing a navy blue suit and a shy smile. Meg took his hand and pulled him inside. His eyes lit on Freddi and his forehead crinkled.
     “Freddi, this is my fiancé, Emil Deukmeijian. Emil, I’d like you to meet my friend Freddi Baskin. Careful of her nails, Emil, I just did them.”
     Freddi rose and extended her hand. Emil took it in a careful clasp and murmured a pleasantry.
     “Freddi will be coming to church with us,” Meg said.
     I will?
     “Breakfast too, I hope?” Emil said. His voice was deep and pleasant.
     “Of course,” Meg answered for her.
     “Where do you know my sweetie from, Freddi?” Emil asked.
     Freddi opened her mouth but Meg leaped in first. “We have to get dressed and get to Mass, Emil. Church first, then breakfast, then small talk.” She grabbed for Freddi’s hand. “Come on, Freddi.”
     Freddi was five inches taller than Meg, but the two of them were close enough in proportions that one of Meg’s skirt suits fit her adequately well. Her leopard-pattern stilettos didn’t go with the navy blue ensemble, but there was nothing to be done about it. Presently they were in Emil’s car, on their way back to Our Lady of the Pines.
     The church was almost full when they arrived. Emil steered them to a back-corner pew where no one else was sitting. They’d just gotten settled when the service began.
     Freddi expected the service to be incomprehensible and tedious, but in truth it flowed along briskly. She understood more of it than she expected. The priest’s homily, on the inner significance of forgiveness, was fresh and appealing. When the communion procession began, Emil rose to join it, leaving the two women alone in the pew.
     “What are they doing?” Freddi whispered to Meg.
     “Taking communion.”
     “What’s that?”
     “Part of the faith. The priest supposedly turns the wafers into the body of Christ, and the wine into his blood. It’s a reenactment of the Last Supper.”
     “Before they killed him, you mean?”
     Meg nodded.
     “Why aren’t you doing it?”
     “I’m not…” Meg’s voice caught. “…one of the family yet.”
     “Do you think…”
     Meg glanced sideways at her. “What?”
     “Never mind.”
     Millions of people do this every Sunday. Some do it even more often. Why? How can they believe it’s about anything real? Even that it really happened? Just because it’s written in an old book?
     Emil returned and sank to his knees beside her, head bowed over his folded hands.
     How could Meg buy into it? She’s as smart as they come. Emil, too, probably, or he wouldn’t have bagged her, and he believes it already! What do they get out of it? What does it have to do with anything real? What’s the deal here?
     What happened then, Freddi could never thereafter describe. It was an entirely interior event, without the slightest of external consequences, yet it consumed and shook her as no orgasm ever had.
     In a space of time too fleeting to be measured or named, she was overcome by a sense of transcendence, as if her body had exploded to engulf the entire universe. Beyond stood a Presence vaster than vast, that looked down upon Creation as a father might look upon his newborn child. Each iota of its substance, and all the laws that governed its journey through time, had been formed in His thought and cast forth by His will. Though it blended sorrow and splendor, pleasure and pain, jubilation and tears in equal measure, all of it was exactly as He intended; there was no waste. He saw it all, named its name, and pronounced it good.
     Including her.
     “Freddi?”
     She heard her name as if it bore no relation to her whatsoever.
     “Freddi…?” Meg’s hand closed upon her shoulder.
     She shook herself, cognizant once again of her surroundings. The vision had sent her to her knees. Emil and Meg had risen and were peering down at her in some concern. The church was almost empty.
     She rose awkwardly, uncertain of her balance. Meg took her by the hand and led her out of the church.

***

     They were back at the garden apartment complex before she could speak again. Emil, apparently aware that the two of them needed some time without him, kissed Meg and told her he’d call that evening. They got out and hurried up the stairs.
     When Meg had closed and locked the door behind them, she pulled Freddi down onto the sofa, made a ball of their four hands, and whispered, “What happened to you?”
     “I don’t know.” Freddi groped for a purchase on the vision, tried to haul it back into clarity, but to no avail. “You…didn’t see it?”
     “See what?”
     Freddi started to speak, halted herself, and thought furiously.
     It’s not supposed to be obvious. Not the faith part. If it were obvious, it wouldn’t be worth anything. Maybe I got it because I’m not smart. Maybe the guys who are smart enough to work it out for themselves never get a shot like this one.
     Meg might never get one.
     You got something in mind for me, God?
     “I don’t know, babe. Probably I just haven’t had enough sleep.” Freddi did her best to grin. “Or maybe it was all that nail polish. People get high on the fumes sometimes, don’t they?”
     Meg winced. “You gave us a fright. Sure you’re okay?”
     Freddi nodded, rose, and stretched out the muscles in her lower back. “Yeah. Got anything planned for your afternoon? Wait, we haven’t had breakfast yet. Hungry?”
     Meg nodded, her face still tense with uncertainty.
     “Then let’s get some. My treat. Think that diner is still open?”
     “It’s always open. Like the church.”
     Freddi swallowed. “Yeah.”

***

     A dour-faced waitress brought them corned beef, scrambled eggs, and hot coffee. Freddi watched her move away before picking up her fork. Meg was already digging in.
     Freddi picked at her hash, uncertain how she should frame her announcement.
     “I think I’m gonna stop hooking.”
     Meg looked up, a forkful of hash halfway to her lips. “Well, good. Because of last night?”
     Freddi nodded.
     “But do you have another line?”
     Freddi shrugged. “I’ve got a few bucks to tide me over while I look for one.”
     “Ever done any data entry?”
     “What’s that?”
     “A lot of typing, mostly. My company has a training program. I could probably get you in.”
     “Sounds good. Thanks! But I’ll bet the money isn’t much.”
     Meg grimaced. “Bull’s-eye.”
     “So I’m gonna have to cut expenses. Find a roommate, maybe.”
     Meg lost all expression.
     “Hey, what’d I say? You okay?”
     “Never better,” Meg said. Her tone was completely without affect, almost electronically flat. “Are you…attached to your apartment?”
     Freddi felt a thrill wash through her. She closed her eyes briefly and waited until it had passed.
     “Naah. It’s a dump. I don’t spend a lot of time there with my eyes open, you know?”
     “Freddi…” Meg looked away. “I do have a spare bedroom.”
     Freddi said nothing.
     “I used to have a roommate. She moved out about two years ago.”
     “When you started seeing Emil?”
     Meg nodded. “I’ve been kind of lonely.”
     You smart gals usually are.
     “What about Emil?”
     “Not for at least a year. Neither of us wants to go fast.”
     “Okay. What’s the rent?”
     “For you? Nothing until you’re working again.”
     “Again?”
     Meg grinned. “Let’s not split hairs. Anyway, would you like to room with me for a year or two? I think I’d enjoy your company. And you might enjoy a change of scene.”
     I already have, babe.
     “You’re on. Just one thing, though.”
     “Hm?”
     “When we go to church on Sundays —”
     “You want to go back?”
     Freddi nodded. “Could it be just you and me for a while? Or do you think Emil will make a stink about it?”
     Meg’s mouth had fallen open. “I…wasn’t sure I wanted to keep going myself. Okay, sure. But why?”
     Freddi scowled. “Some of the things the priest said this morning. I’ve got a lot of forgiving to do. And a lot of learning. I’ve got this feeling there’s gonna be a lot of, you know, girl stuff. I’d like us to do it together, if you’re into it.”
     There was silence between them for a long moment. Meg’s beautiful face, soft and round as a medieval portrait of the Madonna, slowly warmed to a brilliant smile.
     “I think I am. So when do you want to move in?”
     Freddi snorted laughter. “Let’s finish breakfast first. Say, about Emil?”
     “Hm?”
     “Does he have any nice friends?”
     “Ha!”

==<O>==

Copyright © 2012 Francis W. Porretto. All Rights Reserved Worldwide.

Apr 29 2023

The Time Is NOW

Link here.

Apr 29 2023

Breadth Of Vision

     He who decides to involve himself in politics, but without personal aspirations to public office, will often have a single motivating issue in mind. This is commonplace today, when so many subjects of public discourse are of intense interest to some but little or none to others. I’ve known several bright and articulate folks who had such a narrow focus. One of these, an exceptionally capable engineer, has made it the all-consuming center of his existence.

     If you have the usual quota of friends and acquaintances, you probably know someone like that too. They’re getting pretty thick on the ground.

     Such “single-issue voters” might not be the critical margin between the major parties. Yet they make up an increasing fraction of the politically engaged. Those of us who treat with a greater spread of issues sometimes dismiss them as “cranks.” That, I’d say, is a terrible mistake – and not because the issue on which they focus is more or less important than any other.

     At this point in American political evolution, a citizen’s position on a single issue can reliably predict which of two opposing visions of the good he regards as correct. He might never have expressed such an attachment where others could hear it. Even so, you could elicit it, if you have the skill to draw it forth…and both you and he might be surprised by the strength of the attachment.

     If you know anyone who’s unusually intense about a single issue, it’s worth trying this. With some issues – e.g. the right to keep and bear arms; the protection of children; the legality of abortion – the correlation between his position and his place on the Left / Right spectrum approaches 100%. With others – unfunded federal liabilities; social-welfare programs; environmentalism – the correlation will be less absolute, but likely still strong.

     However, in some cases, something more will become visible: some single-issue folks will absolutely refuse to give any time or attention to anything else. Some even become angry at those who try to nudge them “off topic.” When they call themselves “single-issue” voters, they really mean it.

     If you’ve ever needed a demonstration of why passion is not an unalloyed virtue, Gentle Reader, you have it now.

     As usual, Thomas Sowell was eloquent about such monomanias:

     Despite the importance of incremental trade-offs, the language of politics is filled with categorical rhetoric about “setting priorities,” providing basic necessities,” or “assuring safety.” But incremental decisions differ as much from categorical decisions as trade-offs differ from solutions. If faced with a categorical decision between food and music, every sane person would choose food., since one can live without music but not without food. But if faced with an incremental choice, the decision could easily be just the opposite. If foods were categorically more important than music, then we would never be prepared to sacrifice resources that could be used to produce food, in order to produce music. Given this premise, Beethoven, Brahms, and Bach should all have been put to work growing potatoes, instead of writing music, if food were categorically more important.

     This is the sort of proposition that would strike most as irrefutable. Yet there are “edge cases” that would test it: for example, a post-apocalyptic scenario in which the survivors simply cannot spare anyone from the labor required to feed them. However, this resembles the “lifeboat ethics” problem in moral reasoning. Unless Mankind’s circumstances were to change radically, it may be neglected.

     Perhaps here we have the litmus test that would separate the crank from the person of wider vision. If radical departures from the current context are all someone can offer in defense of his monomania, he’s likely to be a crank. Such persons make annoying activists. If there are any in your circle, be careful around them…and not just about what you say.

     This subject has me toying with hypothetical propositions that would greatly disturb a single-issue crank. For example, here’s one to boggle the transgender-rights activist:

     “Let’s imagine that a magic wand exists that could produce a state of society and politics in which every other issue under the sun is settled to your exact, personal satisfaction…except for one: the public absolutely rejects your position on transgenderism. I have the wand in my hand; I offer it to you, to use as you please. Would you use it?”

     You can easily alter the above to address any single issue, and thus to perplex any single-issue fanatic. (However, I don’t recommend trying it on a gun-rights activist.) The information provided by the answer may be of importance to you. Imagine if “the balloon should go up” and face you with a choice of whom to allow into your survival bunker. While you wait for the fallout to fall out, intelligent, varied conversation might prove as vital to your well-being as any other aspect of gracious living.

Apr 29 2023

This Is Who They Are And What They Do

     …and why activist has become a dirty word:

     Perhaps activists on the Right behave better…but present trends continuing, I wouldn’t expect it to last.

Apr 29 2023

Forms Of Community Service

     I found this gem at Kenny “Wirecutter” Lane’s site:

     [He] had a video rental store, that kept getting broken into, so he slept there for a couple nights. After about a week, someone broke in, a couple of 17 or 18 year olds. The story he told was that one of them grabbed a shovel he had in the store, and tried to attack him with it. So he shot him with his shotgun, in the chest and killed him DRT. The other one busted the door down in the back and ran out, getting away.
     The DA wanted to file charges against him but he knew that there was no way he could get a jury in our town to vote for him to go to jail, when our area already was tired of punks getting away with all of the crimes even as far back as that. But they did make his life a tough thing, for quite awhile.

     The protagonist should have received a medal and the key to the city. However, “the authorities” are and have always been hostile to persons who act in the community’s interest without the participation of the police. But the truly salient point is this:

     If the government is cruel, the governor’s life is not safe. If you tax too high, the revenue will yield nothing. If you make the criminal code sanguinary, juries will fail to convict. If the law is too mild, private vengeance comes in. – Ralph Waldo Emerson, Compensation

     Keep this in mind. I predict that it will come in handy in the years to come.

Apr 28 2023

Inverting The Pyramid

     The news is quite static this morning, so I thought I might spend some time musing about more abstract but potentially more important ideas. If you’re easily bored by such things, I recommend surfing over to Sunny Skyz. That would spend your next fifteen minutes more productively than reading my drivel.

     A great deal of hand-wringing has occurred over a question that currently bedevils the Right: If it has become our duty to rebel, who is to lead us?

     That glosses over the question of what sort of rebellion our time demands. Nevertheless, it’s a common theme in all discussions of how to “take our country back” from the Usurper Regime and the various agents of destruction who’ve leagued with them. Many are willing to follow, but few are willing to take the lead. Fewer still would be deemed qualified. If the reasons are “obvious,” that does not reduce the urgency of the question.

     Leadership is generally conceived as a singular attribute. That is: a given group looks to “the leader” rather than “a leader.” But there are alternative approaches. Armies have used one of them for centuries.

     Hierarchically structured organizations have a great deal of similarity to one another. There’s a Maximum Leader a.k.a. the Big Boss or the Man at the Top. Below him are a small number of first-echelon sub-leaders who report to him, a larger group of second-echelon sub-sub-leaders who report to the guys in the first echelon, and so forth down the pyramid until we reach “Walt.” Walt, of course, is the guy at the bottom of the pyramid where the actual work gets done. He and his fellows actually tote the guns, produce the widgets, flip the burgers, administer the sacraments, or what have you. The unspoken premise behind such a structure is that Big Decisions – the ones that most characterize the direction of the organization – originate from the Maximum Leader. Lesser leaders produce directives of lesser scope that affect fewer persons.

     But what happens if we remove Walt?

     Suddenly the picture changes. All those persons clothed with varying levels of authority look a little silly. Their status meetings, their weekly and monthly reports, their spreadsheets and PERT charts, are revealed as vacuities. No one’s shooting at the enemy, or making widgets, or flipping burgers, and so on. The organization’s raison d’etre has vanished.

     Walt and his coworkers are revealed as the genuinely important members of the organization. The men in jeans matter more than the men in suits. Sometimes it takes a mass walkout to jar those so-called leaders back to reality.

     We in the Right should ponder that truth for a while. While we lament the lack of a leader, we should give some thought to its implications.

***

     There’s a quote from a little-known thinker, George Herron, that I particularly like:

     The possession of power over others is inherently destructive both to the possessor of power and to those over whom it is exercised. And the great man of the future, in distinction from the great man of the past, is he who will seek to create power in people, and not gain power over them. The great man of the future is he who will refuse to be great at all, in the historic sense; he is the man who will literally lose himself, who will altogether diffuse himself in the life of humanity.

     The “great man of the past” was almost invariably a Maximum Leader figure. He didn’t tote a gun, produce widgets, et cetera. He commanded others who went forth to do as he bid them. Herron’s “great man of the future” would not command but empower. He would convey to others what they need to become as great as is he. In other words, he would negate the historic sense of the leader and of leadership.

     Imagine that our grunt worker Walt takes young colleague Stan under his wing and teaches him how to do what Walt himself does. In doing so he would exemplify Herron’s great man of the future. That kind of tutoring might not be what Walt does all the time – Walt has widgets of his own to produce, after all – but ultimately it would be of greater impact. For productivity, it would surely eclipse Walt’s manager’s spreadsheets and status reports.

     Perhaps the pro-freedom Right should be thinking along these lines. Rather than moaning for a leader who’d lead us like a Roman legion, why not promote freedom by helping others to become personally freer? It requires some thought:

  • What activities promote personal freedom?
  • Who is pursuing those activities?
  • What do they need to become [more] effective, whether in freeing themselves or in helping others?

     Harry Browne had something to say about this:

     If you’re not free now, it might be because you’ve been preoccupied with people or institutions that have restrained your freedom.

     Perhaps we can do better.

***

     The small group is the best medium for discussing such things and germinating ideas. However, there are traps here. Success can breed failure. Individuals and small groups that become apostles for freedom can also become condensation nuclei for much larger groups. Not only do large groups tend to develop diffuse agendas and get much less done per capita — remember the 80/20 rule — they attract the power-hungry.

     Along with that, groups tend to produce leaders of the old type even if they have no such agenda. There are always stronger and weaker voices, more and less forceful personalities. If what matters is individual empowerment, the emergence of a recognized leader is a sign of regression. So also is a focus on government and government policies.

     That’s about as far as I can take this in a single morning, with so many other things clamoring for my attention. If it strikes you as more froth than useful…well, no one hits a homer every time he comes to the plate. And I did suggest the alternative of Sunny Skyz. Those folks who detach eels from the nostrils of young Hawaiian seals might have some better ideas.

Apr 27 2023

Death By a Thousand Cuts

Americans are not, generally, petty people. Other than a few sub-groups (clannish Hill Folk, gang members – at least the most vicious ones, and ex-spouses with a grudge), we tend to attribute disputes to differences in viewpoint, and are ready to shake hands when the dispute is resolved.

There are even those that have forgiven the cold-blooded murder of a family member. Those are often those crediting the Christian creed of “Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive others”.

That is NOT the type of Christian I am. I might not attend their execution, or work relentlessly to keep them from getting parole. But I would take a grim satisfaction in seeing the cold-eyed killer sentenced for that crime.

We’re that way even in highly contentious endeavors such as politics. Live and let live.

That’s how the Left is killing us. They are counting on us NOT to pursue grievances to final resolution. They are anticipating that we will accept their half-assed apologies, depend on their ‘having learned their lesson’, and be gobsmacked once again, when it’s clear that, far from mending their ways, the Left has returned to the Same Old, Same Old.

What brought this to mind was a long post on Ace of Spades, that listed one after another abuses, crimes, and underhand dealing by the Left and Their Allies, that, together, amounted to the famed Death By a Thousand Cuts. See here what that practice – known as Lingchi – was.

That we suffer IS the point. That such suffering causes such a terror of further torture – in our own self, our families, and anyone who might also be inclined to provide resistance – is the point of it.

So, then, the frankly ridiculous demands for PUBLIC retribution, the constant chipping away at those who stick their necks out, and other ‘small ways to torture’. Individually, each assault on our freedom to dissent seems like the bite of a gnat.

Together, as I can attest, having been assaulted by CLOUDS of sand gnats, these tiny bites can cause a lot of damage.

That’s the current state of our public discourse in America. We are pursued by relentless ideologues, and their Allies (LGBT+…….., unhappy, hysterical women, Beta men, and, frankly, cowards). We need to Man and Woman UP, and put on a full court press to fight them.

This is NOT what we look forward to. Americans tend to prefer very violent, short-term wars. We like to throw everything into the fight, including the kitchen sink, killing everything in sight until there is silence.

The Left, on the other hand, prefers the Long War. Such a strategy works well with limited troops and supplies. They get their money and weapons from their enemies (Soros is NOT spending HIS money, nor are the others. They are relying on foreign contributions, foundation giveaways, and government grants.)

Post in the comments if you have any ideas about how to get local Minutemen organized.

Apr 27 2023

Recent Revelations

     “You still haven’t got over the idea that politicians are important because the newspapers tell you so.” – Sir Frederick Hoyle

     It’s become critical to our individual and social mental health that we draw a firm distinction between two categories of vermin. The first of these, the politician, runs for elective office. If he achieves it, thereafter he will possess the appearance of power. The second, who was once called a gray eminence, is the actual master of the powers of the State. He may not be known to the public by name or face, but he has greater sway over policy and power than the politicians he “serves.”

     The major media “report” on the words and deeds of politicians. Yet in the post-World War era, it is almost never the case that politicians decide on how the State’s powers shall be wielded.

     For the past two years it has been brutally apparent that the supposed president of these United States – Joseph R. Biden, a politician – has no significant influence on the use of federal power. The contempt of the gray eminences who manipulate him for Us the Hoi-Polloi has become ever more visible. It’s not unknown for those of high estate to dismiss the sentiments of the common folk. Yet in the pre-World War era, those who wielded power have at least pretended to respect us, reality notwithstanding.

     Biden’s most recent “press conference” has made such pretenses impossible:

     President Biden is no stranger to detailed cheat sheets when speaking to the press, but the president’s team seems to have taken things up a notch after he revealed a pre-written question from a reporter during Wednesday’s press conference.

     As Biden spoke alongside South Korean President Yoon Suk Yeol in the White House Rose Garden, a photographer captured a small cheat-sheet in the president’s hand signaling he had advanced knowledge of a question from Los Angeles Times journalist Courtney Subramanian. The small paper also included a picture of the reporter along with the pronunciation breakdown of her last name. “Question #1” was handwritten at the top of the sheet, indicating the president should call on her first at the conclusion of his remarks.

     Here’s a rather blatant shot of the cheat sheet’s stage directions for the ersatz president:

     And here’s a pretty good look at scripted question page #1:

     It couldn’t get much clearer, could it? A large portion of the press has been “tamed” to this farce and goes along with the puppet show uncomplainingly. Even among them must be some individuals who chafe at the disrespect being shown toward their once-honorable trade. Yet there are no indications of a brewing rebellion from that sector.

     Quoth John Hinderaker:

     One wonders what the editors of the L.A. Times would say about this: enacting a pantomime with the President, in which their reporter plays the part of an independent journalist. Is that their idea of honest journalism?

     But they will never have to answer that question, because there is no one to ask it. The other news organizations are playing for the same team. And I think they all agree that this is the kind of thing you have to do when your man is, unfortunately, senile.

     “Your man.” The man the press strained all credulity to promote as a worthy aspirant to the Oval Office. The man whose half-century of perfidies and deceits they resolutely refused to mention. The man for whose sake they collaborated in the defamation and de facto silencing of the sitting, wildly popular president.

     The gray eminences have the press by the short hairs, and the masters of the press know it full well. Once you’ve lied in service to a public figure, he owns you. He’ll persuade you to lie ever more dramatically and volubly, until you’ve fatally undermined your own credibility. After that he can end your career whenever he pleases, with one public utterance – and in defense of their own careers, your colleagues in the press will help him do it.

     The big story these past few days has been the removal of Tucker Carlson from his commentator’s perch at FOX News. Who among our Gentle Readers thinks there might have been an attempt to bring Carlson into the fold? If there was such an attempt, it clearly didn’t have the desired effect. Yet until his firing, Carlson was the most influential commentator in any medium – and his firing is likely to have enhanced his reputation, at least among Americans in the Right. Streisand Effect, anyone?

     With this most recent display of contempt for Americans’ intelligence, the stakes have been maximized. Perhaps the Left has a firm grip on the electoral machinery, such that the results of future elections will be predetermined regardless of who votes and how. That will do them no good in the court of popular sentiment. What remains to be seen is whether any great number of us are ready for some “Irish democracy.” I could hardly imagine a greater or more blatant justification.

Apr 26 2023

The Loss of Information on the Internet

So much of it is now (at best) thinly-veiled propaganda, disguised press releases by partisan sources, gossip and junk. Blogs are now assuming new importance, as they serve as an alternative to the Corporate/NGO/Partisan ‘News’.

Ace of Spades has a good post on just how that’s done.

I spent a lot of time in the last couple of weeks NOT on the internet. Oh, I USED it – to borrow library books, pay bills, keep in touch by email, and amusing myself by looking for funny memes.

I’d been too under the weather with a nasty and prolonged asthma attack, to care much about keeping up with the news. What reading I did was mostly fluff.

I didn’t miss much, other than up to the minute news about Carlson’s leaving Fox News. It was worth it to take a break from it all. I feel refreshed and with some energy today.

I may try 1 or 2 day breaks in the future. Sunday seems like a good day to start.

Apr 26 2023

Great Men And Superheroes

     If you attended high school around the same time as I did, you undoubtedly learned about the Great Man theory of history. For our younger Gentle Readers:

     The Great Man theory is a 19th-century idea according to which history can be largely explained by the impact of “great men”, or heroes: highly influential individuals who, due to either their personal charisma, intelligence, wisdom, or political skill utilized their power in a way that had a decisive historical impact. The theory was popularized in the 1840s by Scottish writer Thomas Carlyle. But in 1860 Herbert Spencer formulated a counter-argument that has remained influential throughout the 20th century to the present; Spencer said that such great men are the products of their societies, and that their actions would be impossible without the social conditions built before their lifetimes.

     Carlyle stated that “The history of the world is but the biography of great men”, reflecting his belief that heroes shape history through both their personal attributes and divine inspiration. In his book On Heroes, Hero-Worship and the Heroic in History, Carlyle set out how he saw history as having turned on the decisions of “heroes”, giving detailed analysis of the influence of several such men (including Muhammad, Shakespeare, Luther, Rousseau, Pericles, and Napoleon). Carlyle also felt that the study of great men was “profitable” to one’s own heroic side; that by examining the lives led by such heroes, one could not help but uncover something about one’s true nature.

     The critical word in the above is heroes. I’ve written before about the nature of heroism, and why I try, as a fiction writer, to depict heroes. Sir Thomas Carlyle’s view of heroes as the principal shapers of the great events of history may be accurate – certainly it’s hard to imagine faceless drones bringing about the American Revolution or the World Wars – but to my mind the concept says more about human yearnings and aspirations than about history.

     Who are history’s greatest figures? Which men are seen to have shaped the centuries behind us, whether for good or for ill? What did they contribute that had the most effect? Was it their individual deeds, or their thinking and the expressions thereof?

     The real movers and shakers weren’t the charismatic leaders, but the innovative thinkers. The ideas they promulgated are why we remember them, even if we aren’t fully aware of it. Those whose ideas were good raised Mankind to new heights. Those whose ideas were bad precipitated great destruction.

     Thomas Jefferson didn’t personally lead the American Revolution. It was his insight that men must be free that gave the Revolution the impetus it needed. Adolf Hitler didn’t personally massacre millions. It was his vision of a Greater Germany, a nation that would bestride the world by its racial superiority, that gave the Third Reich its killing force.

     But in the most common case, when we fantasize about heroes, we don’t endow them with great ideas. Rather, we endow them with great physical powers, clothe them in spandex, and send them out to battle evil personally. Superhero fiction is one of the best-selling marketing categories. Superheroes have been the principal fodder of the movie industry for a number of years now.

     I can’t escape the feeling that We the People are waiting for a superhero to arise who’ll take the responsibility of saving the Republic on himself. Like Jesus and the moneychangers, he’ll personally drive the villains out of the corridors of power, such that the good guys can have the Temple back. Failing that, he’ll become our war leader. His charisma will rally the forces of the righteous for an irresistible march on Mordor on the Potomac.

     To be maximally gentle, I wouldn’t advise you to bet the mortgage money on it.

***

     Throughout recorded history, the greater part of Mankind has striven in vain to lay its burdens on the shoulders of others. That it can’t be done “should” be “obvious” by now. Occasionally, the opposite approach to life – individual responsibility – has gained a foothold and shown the world its superiority. The response of the masses has always been massive envy: the urge to tear down those who have succeeded through their own initiative and their own efforts.

     Please don’t interpret “success” in a narrow material sense. He who has achieved personal peace, even if he wears rags and totes a beggar’s bowl, has succeeded. Few of us could say as much about ourselves.

     No superhero can bring you peace. No guru; no self-help lecturer; no talk-show host. The job is inescapably yours. Similarly, no superhero can set you free. It’s a state you must achieve and secure for yourself.

     We have enough history to know what we need. The ideas are in the writings of the truly great men, the liberators: Thomas Jefferson, John Locke, Adam Smith, Frederic Bastiat, Montesquieu, Voltaire, Schiller, Goethe. Note that “those who have not joy” have striven to remove those persons and their ideas from the education of our young. Oops, my mistake! It isn’t “history” any more, is it? It’s “global studies,” at least here on Long Island.

     Robert A. Heinlein once described our continent as “a place where the soul could grow.” That poetic formulation embeds an essential truth that must not be overlooked. Man must grow to succeed, for the opposite of growth is death. Regard in that light the open desires – the social and political agenda – of the villains of our time. Quoth Heinlein:

     “We see the history of the world as a series of crises in a conflict between two opposing philosophies. Ours is based on the notion that life, consciousness, intelligence, ego is the important thing in the world….That puts us in conflict with every force that tends to destroy, deaden, degrade the human spirit, or to make it act contrary to its nature….
     “The crisis has been growing on us since Napoleon. Europe has gone, and Asia surrendered to authoritarianism, nonsense like the ‘leader principle,’ totalitarianism, all the bonds placed on liberty that treat men as so many economic and political units with no importance as individuals. No dignity, do what you’re told, believe what you’re told, and shut your mouth! Workers, soldiers, breeding units…
     “If that were the object of life, there would have been no point in including consciousness in the scheme at all!”
     “This continent has been a refuge of freedom, a place where the soul could grow. But the forces that killed enlightenment in the rest of the world are spreading here. Little by little they have whittled away at human liberty and human dignity. A repressive law, a bullying school board, a blind dogma to be accepted under pain of persecution, doctrines that will shackle men and put blinders on their eyes so that they will never regain their lost heritage.”

     It is a battle each of us must fight and win for himself. If you succeed in gaining allies and assistance in the struggle, all the better. Nevertheless, the principal effort must be yours. Moreover, I contend that you already possess weapons sufficient to prevail: your innate sense for reality, for right and wrong, and for who is on which side.

     And in your every interaction with others, preach Christ.

Apr 26 2023

The Really Important News Of The Day

     We have it from the very top:

     You have your orders, Gentle Readers: For the rest of the week, whenever you see a lesbian, call out “I see one! Over there!” and point as directly as possible at the lesbian you’ve spotted. Remember that all lesbian spottings must be confirmed by at least one other participant to be deemed official. Final tallies will be announced and awards presented on Sunday. (NB: This doesn’t apply solely to “Spotted Lesbians,” a rare subspecies whose habitat has shrunk dangerously in recent years.)

     According to his spokesperson, Howard Stern will not be participating this year.

Apr 25 2023

The Tucker Carlson Firing: One Possible Reason

     While we’re doomed to be forever uncertain about the exact reason FOX News fired Tucker Carlson, I think we can adduce some of the ingredients. One that looms large for me, at least is this:

The Right is forbidden to talk about
Evil
From a respected media perch.

     FOX News wasn’t always considered “respectable media.” When it was new, the Legacy Media did their utmost to destroy it through a concentrated campaign of dismissal, denigration, and degradation. It didn’t work; FOX had found an unserved niche and had addressed it in a winning fashion. But over the years since its birth, FOX has shed many of the people who made it a winner…and their ideas with them. The current management seems ardent to join the larger media corporations as a “big player,” a status difficult to achieve for a cablecaster.

     That means “going along to get along:” remaining within the bounds of reportage and commentary the Legacy Media are willing to tolerate. That’s a stance the previous FOX management would not countenance. And Tucker Carlson has proved unwilling to be domesticated. So, like Bill O’Reilly and Dan Bongino before him, he had to go.

     In the clip below, carefully scissored from Carlson’s address to the Heritage Foundation’s 50th Anniversary gala this past Friday, he expresses a position the Legacy Media find anathema, to wit:

  • That political harmony can only exist when all the participants are agreed on ultimate objectives;
  • That this is no longer the case in these United States, for one major participant promotes evil;
  • That this mandates a change in our attitudes and lexicon when we approach political “issues.”

     It’s only six minutes and a few seconds long. Please watch it.

Apr 25 2023

Vampire Finance

I’d never heard this phrase, but it is surprisingly apt.

It’s been going on for a very long time.

Apr 25 2023

No Pretense

     The “media megaphone” (William E. Simon) will no longer tolerate sharply dissenting voices:

     Now, for a Gentle Reader of Liberty’s Torch, this is “yesterday’s news” – literally. But Beck makes a connection that’s likely to have evaded even some of our most vigilant: the major automakers’ rumbling about no longer building AM radios into their offerings.

     AM “talk radio,” for those readers whose memory is incomplete, was where the Right found a home. Rush Limbaugh may have gone to his reward, but his legacy remains…for the present. But “talk radio” is at its most active during those time periods when working people are – guess where? — in their cars. Get the picture?

     They’re not even trying to hide their agenda. The Right shall be permitted a sharply delimited range of expression and nothing beyond it. A “tamed Right” preserves the fiction that free expression is still honored. But once the Official Line has been decreed, any commentator who puts a foot across it will be purged.

     I’m fairly sure Tucker Carlson will find a perch somewhere, probably on a streaming service. He’s only the most popular video commentator now practicing. In the video above, Glenn Beck throws his hat into the ring. If he should succeed in winning Carlson for Blaze TV, that service will experience a surge of subscribership that’s likely to bust the Internet. Whether that would trigger a fury of attempts to “cancel” The Blaze, or wherever else Carlson might emerge, we must wait and see.

Apr 24 2023

Busy, Busy

A lot has been going on:

  • My brother is much better. Today, I checked him out on driving, and he did fine. That should reduce the number of trips I make to the West Side of Cleveland (about 40 minute trip to his house). More importantly, that will give him some freedom and mobility.
  • After mid-May, we should only own ONE house (and have a nice pile of cash). That should make it much easier to manage the Lorain house and grounds.
  • We will be using some of the money to pay for some long planned improvements to the new house – greenhouse, a railing on the front porch, a chair lift for the basement, painting the siding and garage, fixing up a retaining wall. Lots of little things. And we should still have some money left over for trips for FUN!

But, all of that entails some work and running around – as, for instance, today’s trip to a home improvement store for a new freezer – this time an upright freezer. I had to hold firm. My husband wanted another chest freezer. The concept that I wasn’t able to reach most of the contents inside it was not penetrating his skull. It was more efficient, therefore better. That I was generally the one that needed to reach things was unimportant. However, today, I will have my input.

I’m WAY behind on gardening. Recent snows and torrential freezing rains make that seem like an inspired notion, but, no. I was just lazy. I’m amazed that some of the flowers that I planted the first year survived the extreme weather. I made some plans for kickstarting the garden,

My day? I got up early, ate and took meds, dressed, walked and fed the dog, then headed over to my brother’s. He tried driving for the first time in 2 months. He was fine. We went shopping, then I headed for home.

At home, I ate lunch, took care of some paperwork, then went with my husband to return the trailer to U-Haul. After that, chiropractor (him), lunch, then appliance shopping. I wasn’t able to make a decision, so we got some information, and headed home.

Honestly, not all that much, but I’m wiped out. It’ll be an early night again.

Indecision or waffling on making a decision is MORE tiring than just getting the job done. Unfortunately, due to a family illness, I’m finding it difficult to handle any decision-making at present. I’m hoping that my relative gets her medical team to get off the dime and decide to either operate, or take other action. The problem is potentially life-threatening, and really can’t wait until they get around to it.

Apr 24 2023

Aspects of This Are Worth Cheering

Do you see why?

Note how this recent(?) video becomes more significant after Tucker’s abrupt firing.

Apr 24 2023

Day Off

     As I’ve been neglecting my fiction, please allow me a day off from ranting at Liberty’s Torch. Rather than pontificate here, I must service my characters, at least sufficiently to quell any potential mutiny. (Some of them have been threatening to form a union.) So I’ll wish all our Gentle Readers a good day and hope to be back tomorrow. Be well!

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