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Aix Marks the Spot

4 July and 14 juillet 2020

I’ve been experiencing a difficult time trying to stay focused on my translation work. The final chapters of Book 5, which begins Volume II of THE DAWN, consist of the travels of Artur Boucher through Provence, and the acceleration of increasingly inter-related events that begin to coalesce and collide, as the plot and subplots of this novel advance inexorably toward The End.

I am also concurrently awaiting completion of the construction of my Dream Home; and I am attempting to calibrate what to pack, and when, in advance of The Move from the rental house to the Mission-Accomplished House. Just within the past week or so, the weather here in Northern-Northern California has gone from near 100 F to mid-60s, from dry heat to thunderstorms with hail, and back again to spring-like temps in mid-June. Obviously, keeping all of my clothing options open — are on the table, or in the closet.

News events are a distraction, for me, since the murders and wanton destruction of whatever is left of the Inner City in the USA are very intentional distractions from the unintended distractions of how well the majority of Americans are doing during a sane and sensible and spectacular economic recovery.

Several years ago, I opined to Dear Husband that the time would most certainly come when, the people who were working to get ahead after the foulness of the Subprime Recession had ended — those hard-working people were going to be met with all kinds of hatred and hostility by the lazy slugs who weren’t going to be going anywhere — but further downhill — out of their own free wills.

That day is here, and it might not be going away anytime soon. Losers have a habit of getting louder when the Media show up, and where would the world be without a crybaby media of hypocrites?

In the past few days, I’ve been forced to revise my understandings of many portions and pieces of my past: my childhood in New Jersey, my early adult years in Washington, D.C., my somewhat older adult years in Sacramento, CA.

I’ve come to grips with the more real and crueler realities of places like Paterson, my birthplace, after the Youngest-Turk-ever, Lawrence Francis “Pat" Kramer, got elected Mayor in 1966. Paterson, that once industrial and industrious city, founded by Alexander Hamilton, got torched. And “Pat” Kramer got mugged by reality. I guess he slunk away to a different illusion of his warped idealism. Being a child at the time, I did not keep up on those things in philosophical or even political terms. I very seriously and sadly heeded the warnings from people of a different skin color not to go to Paterson — if you’re a white girl.

I was advised by some very honorable and caring friends in D.C. that I was doing the right thing, moving out of D.C., moving West. All of those people were also of a different skin color, and I recall their sorrowful sense that the trajectory of life for “their people,” by the late 1970s, was moving in the wrong direction. A city that was marginally livable was about to descend into drug-fueled madness with the elections of Marion Barry as mayor. He wasn’t one of “them”, the dignified, talented people truly of African descent whom I knew, some of whom had taken me under their fiercely protective wing. Marion Barry was one of Them, the powerful people running the cynical shake-downs of the capitalists.

When I predicted, here, in California, in the mid-1990s, to a few naive native Californians, that Marion Barry would win re-election, they refused to believe me. Not with a drug conviction! Because of a drug conviction, was my somber reply.

During the past week, I saw the LBJ War on Society, which started in flames, going up in flames. One con game had grown into another con game, then into bigger con games, until now the con game is played on a global scale.

I, like many good-hearted souls, had believed that the social programs of the 1960s and 1970s would somehow lead to progress among the dis-advantaged. The cruel irony here is that I was among those disadvantaged. I, however, never even considered applying for a hand-out from anyone, nor did I ask for any favor. My sense of dignity would not permit it. And. frankly, I was mistaken so often as, in the words of one very resentful younger woman, “a rich-white girl who had it easy” — that I had an image, false as it was, to uphold!

Or, as uttered by the journalist in the 1962 Western, The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, “When the legend becomes fact, print the legend.” Maybe, in time, the fact, or the truth, will become the legend.

I spent a few of my childhood years on welfare, after the death of my father. My mother, to her credit, was shamed into getting off of the dole and finding a job. The Case Worker would come for her regularly scheduled visits to the house “we” rented, the second story of a 3-story house that had seen better days. I listened in on her stories of baby payoffs that almost immediately became the welfare norm, of the brazen bilking the system through fraud, six ways to hell. Half a century later, that fraud is now a way of life, except there are entire organizations, bilking the taxpayer, and receiving “funding” through globalist crime-schemes, and jerking the chains of the Cowards-in-Charge, the self-loathing skunks who seek publicity, like a drug, as they arrogantly blame the falling apart of their worlds on every living creature outside of those worlds.

The world is not falling apart for the people who revere life, who would move, and have moved, heaven and earth, to try to make a better place on earth for their children, their loved ones, the future generations.

A few things have become crystal-clear to this former Jersey Girl:

American enterprise and capitalism have triumphed SO much that ripping off the System has gone corporate. Heart-ache over the plight of the poor has nothing to do with the bullies and thugs using those people as pawns for their own empowerment. And the sky-is-falling routine has become too routine.

A lot of people don’t deserve what is happening around them, but there is solace, real solace, to be gleaned from that statement:

If you expect only to get what you deserve, you’re not living on earth.

If you want heaven-on-earth — of getting only what you deserve, what is your due, and justice now — then you are the willing pawn of the putrid gimmick used by cunning cynics to empower themselves. The Welfare State and God can no longer co-exist. I’ve got a pretty good hunch who wins this one.

The desire for freedom from the perfidy of those hucksters, peddling propaganda on so many fronts, is almost a hunger in this land of opportunity. We are on overload from the spewing of public lies that are automatic and robotic from soul-less people, who, while panicking in private, clutch at political power like it’s a lifeline. That power has become their collective noose.

What sane individual, on God’s green earth, can stomach any more of the bilge of blasphemy against the natural order of the world, against humanity? These vulgarities in human form are not new upon the face of the earth, but they think they are, and the faster they are ignored, the faster we, the rightful heirs of Western Civilization, will come to the truth, the truths that we can honor.

Because we can all live with the truth. No matter how awful, or painful, or sickening, the truth sets you free. It is the window that opens out — upon the future. And it is that window — to the future — that these hi-jackers of mankind and morality and the basic dignity of life — want closed shut.

A world without windows is the world of the anarchist. How telling that the nihilist throws the brick first at the unbroken window, savaging the porthole that looks out upon the world outside. Within that world that the Ineffable created, there are oh so many truths that the nihilist cannot destroy, but he can try to shatter your view of it, and warp any truth into his own obscene deceit.

The truths of life don’t vanish or go away. Truth is always there. It always prevails, in the fullness of time, that is. And the fullness of time is not determined by you, or by me, or by an online blog, or a propaganda feed, or a swarm of hate-filled humans. It is determined by God.

Perhaps now I can return to Artur and the startling return of a native son to Roussillon during the celebration of 14 juillet. The French Revolution didn’t turn out like it was planned either.


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