First Real Spring
The past year has very quickly sped by in my personal life, and in my creative world. The calamitous criminal corruption within my nation caused me to re-think my approach to writing, to living, to how well I would be able to create in this new home, Larkhaven.
Moving into the entirely empty structure of a two-story house in late July 2020 must have prompted My Muse to reach toward even more imaginative and ingenious heights. I was aware only of an energetic and steady force of adapting and adjusting to a very new environment, of being busy nearly 24 hours of the day, every day. I achieved so many goals that I couldn’t count them!
Better to just do them, and keep track later, I told myself, and My Muse.
This spring at Larkhaven shall be my first real spring in this house. No more unpacking and organizing, no more setting sundry things into order. A routine has been established, not that such habitual activities won’t change. I need, and seek, alterations to the fixed schedule. I enjoy spontaneous diversions from my set plan.
This spring at Larkhaven shall be my first spring of watching newly planted rosebushes come into bloom; of observing, each morning from my kitchen window, the buds gradually opening up on the tulip magnolia tree, planted last summer in my front yard; of sensing the renewal of life, all around me, after a cold, windy, snowy and rainy winter.
The past two years prepared me for the final writing of SHADOW, my medical novel set in the American West. I’d not set any goalposts or timeline for this work of fiction, although I had envisioned it taking final form a few years into the future!
I rarely place a deadline on my creativity, and, thus, My Muse is free to fulfill all of our expectations. I speak of those past two years because they were horribly historic, yet vitally necessary to the future of America.
There is a divine purpose for — and there shall be divine responses to — the savage sorrows that were criminally caused by amoral people within my nation, and outside of it, to countless innocents. The livelihoods and lives of so many Americans were devastated for reasons that we now completely comprehend. We presently work to resolutely redress the wickedness that long ago lost any farcical humor.
I moved into my newly constructed Dream House in July 2020, amidst the nightmare and the daymare of the plandemic that was concocted by scads of heinous men and vile women in America. From day one of the publicly pronounced Golden State hysteria, I did not huddle in fear, nor did I believe for one sane second that the dystopia of Newsomville would witness the deaths of 5 millions in California.
A part of me came to life. That vital portion of me had long needed to defy the indignities of every-day life in the pooped-out utopia of California. The citadins who exist in pits of depravity and poverty in this welfare state, they might have been okey-dokey with the insane abuses of power, and the stripping away of natural rights, of civil rights, of centuries-old respect for the scientific method and for the hard-earned ethnical practice of medicine. They reside, corralled in fear, every day and every night.
The terror is abided by them, as if they can do nothing about it. They’ve been beaten down too much, for too long, by life, by themselves. There’s not much fight left in them. The sovereign leeches and overseers known as The Elected want it that way. And those masses in the enclaves of collectivism relinquish any hope for a fine future.
Not I. I’ve clawed my way out of too many hell-holes to countenance even one second of the morbid malarky peddled as science. From the very start of the scamedic, I refused to kow-tow to one single fiat from the feckless idiots in charge of the frantic charge of the light brigade of loonies. That last-gasp, hysterical plot to take down a patriotic and successful sitting president was hatched by demons-on-earth through wild emergency powers to battle a frenzied — and fraudulent — pandemic, the public health scare of the 21st century.
Hope springs unexpectedly after the government grip, oops, I mean, grim reapers got caught by 21st century gumption and know-how.
I grew to adulthood in the late 1970s. Before the pesky forefingers of the welfare state became the simpering, smothering tentacles of a nanny state. The nanny state and its sham chieftains are currently composed of callous and cold automations, advocates and anti-heroes. They are servilely addicted to all sorts of self-destructive substances and obsessions. Power, colossal power, is but one of them; but it is that giddy, godless high, that sloshed sense of feeling unaccountable to no one which so definitively marks each rotten pig among our swinish ruling classes.
I am extremely sensitive to, and experienced in dealing with — intrusions to my privacy and to my liberty. I therefore watched with prophetic acumen the atrociously heartless and unconstitutional actions taken by the self-aggrandizing and self-enriching elites, the low-minded cads who have positioned themselves for decades over the little people, the grubby rabble whom they disdain and despise.
My, oh my, how big and ugly are the crooked, fanged teeth and the snooty, snotty noses of Big Brothers and Big Sisters in America (and elsewhere in the world). The Capital Crooks and Potomac Scoundrels pompously sneer that They feed us. They guarantee us those liberties that, in reality, in truth, have been granted to us by God, and are protected for us by the men and women of our armed forces!
What have we, the People, gotten for our money, those billions of dollars poured into the Tidal Basin of Thieves, that bottomless pit of feckless bureaucracy that exists simply to exist.
Not much. In actuality, we’ve gotten nothing of esteemed worth. We have instead been defrauded and robbed to-no-end by the Government-Garrison State of ghouls and fools, of devious drunks, prissy perverts, and their puppet-state Dementia-Dope, the illicit deviant dupe with the balding, liver-spotted pate, wandering, lost, In the Home on Penn Ave.
Somehow, those craven political parasites, feeding off of the carrion of their own corruption, expect tens of millions of Americans to ignore the blatant obscenity of their illegitimate power and their obscene putrefaction.
From Louis XIV, the French people at least got Versailles. All we Americans get is smoke and mirrors from the Virtue-Signaling Slobs at Fort Pelosi.
From the reign of Queen Elizabeth I were born the immortal words of Shakespeare and a sublime civilization of destiny, one that charted a course to define a major portion of Western Civilization. From Mumbles, we get word salads, mashed by a late-stage illness that was mid-stage and purposely kept in the basement in the summer of 2020.
And from that addled emperor and his cringing court with no clothes, we tax-paying, law-abiding Americans get only:
economic turmoil, emotional strife, rampant crime, mobocracy, invasions (of all kinds), lawlessness (of all kinds), an unholy mess, a rat’s nest, humiliations (domestic and foreign), disgust, distaste, and, oh, yes, inflation.
What kind of a world is this, which turns truth upside down and then gloats about it?
That kind of world is a fraction of the real world, and I highly doubt that sliver is even real. It’s a doctored-up scenario that fiendishly defies actuality.
The real world is not the stage setting portrayed in the puppet-media, with their primitive propaganda. It’s not to be found on the fantasy Judgement Day on a widescreen, or in any blaring audio-cast of someone who revoltingly profits from the misery of others. That real world is one of mercy, one to another; of patience that most blessedly comes from prayer; of belief in the best that will be, simply because the horrors of humanity do not endure forever. They do take a break, once in a while. Ye need not say, A pox on the evildoers, or on their houses. The villains have poxed themselves.
The structural collapse of the unnaturally built temples of treason, of treachery, and of a congealed and inhuman apathy toward one’s fellow man: that implacable ruination is the law of justice arriving in due course, and at the right time. It’s a law of moral physics at work in the universe created, crafted, and constructed by the Master Planner.
That Maker of a real world does not look upon it with an indifferent eye. His eye is on the sparrow; mine too must be upon that little bird.
With wonderment, gratitude, and the allegiance of faith, I shall also look upon the singular beauty that is springtime: the renewal of life, of hope, of buds that bloom in the cycle that no law, fiat or mandate can interrupt or banish.
The small soothing crocus, rising to fruition; and the daffodil, trumpeting renaissance, they mean more to me this year than they have during many a vernal equinox.
This spring, the sweet, lovely signs of faith and hope and charity will appear everywhere I look, because my eyes have awakened to the truest meanings of faith and hope and charity. Each bulb that tenderly but inexorably bursts forth from the richness of the soil is the promise that virtue is stronger than wickedness, courage is the silent strength that wins the day, and love does conquer all.
This spring, let us rise, and be on our way — to the glorious future that awaits us, with the godsend of atonement and amazing grace.