Spilt Tea

22 September 2025

Spilt tea is not like spilled milk.  If you’re like me, you don’t cry over it.  You clean up the amazingly fast-flowing fluid mess and whatever has been stained.  And you hope that the spot fully comes out.

With some stains, the spot never fully disappears.  Just think of Lady Macbeth, but pity her not.  Her blood-lust was real, her insanity more so.

When blood is spilled in the cause of liberty, that spot remains.  Dried, horrified, sanctified, but always the reminder that, according to Founding Father Thomas Jefferson:

“The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants.”

Lately, the blood of patriots has vastly outflowed that of tyrants.

Tyrants historically have lived in excessively protected bubbles, an utterly unreal world that allows no one near, lest that blood become externalized, or spilled.  And so it is that we, in America, bear witness to heartless humans, both young and old, manifesting that lost-in-space look on their smug idiotic faces, whilst intoning their demented-donor-diktats to us, the stupid plebes, in the name of Saving Democracy.

The Danish theologian Soren Kierkegaard sagely wrote:  “The tyrant dies and his rule is over, the martyr dies and his rule begins.”

I shall stoically note the passing of our latest impotent tyrant on Rehoboth Beach.  That soulless sea turtle, with the mushy noggin, reflexively sold out his country, without a smidgeon of conscience, just to be installed Head of State in a bloodless coup that turned bloody to cover up the bloodless coup.

I’m not one to advocate the spilling of blood for any reason other than a blood transfusion to save someone’s life.  The thirst for liberty in this Land of Liberty has become an inviolate blood transfusion from the heroic martyrs of yesterday to the heroes of tomorrow who, God willing, will not have to become martyrs for this cause of a free America.

The bloody revolution that gave birth to my young nation — almost 250 years ago — has become an unstoppable groundswell of hunger for freedom, a God-given right that dared not speak its name, or else the lewd lunatic who lived next door as a spoiled-brat teenager will express his, or her, non-negotiable rage on behalf of the Thought Police.

Freedom now dares to speak its name, today, every day, without regret.

I regret one thing, nonetheless, and that sadness is re-working itself into redemptive grace:  In the mid-late 1990s, in the godless, materialistic Suburbs of California, the climate was polluted with the overwhelming permission, consensus, really, by politically-correct and virtue-signaling parents to allow the oppression of free speech in offices and public meetings — so that no one would think horrible things about them.  If image is important to certain people, it is The ONLY thing of importance to persons of that malleable ilk.

I tersely voiced my disapproval of this lax attitude toward the none-too-subtle violations of the First Amendment, heck, of the Bill of Rights in public schools, stores, even parks.  One smart-mouthed mother told me:

“I don’t need God in the classroom.  The kids will get it at home.”

“And what if they don’t?” I asked.

I didn’t get an answer, but, not fitting into that group of moral relativists, I didn’t need one.  It’s no wonder that young young adults in America craved the inspirational messages of Charlie Kirk.

The human spirit is noble, and flawed.  We are made in the image of God, but we are sinners, in need of the salvation that is rarely a direct path to our Saviour.  That path is, in and of itself, a part of the grace of that salvation.  Regardless of who, or what, you call your Creator, and how much you knowingly hunger for salvation, your soul needs to be uplifted, every waking day and, yes, every waking night — by that Voice.

How many odious voices currently attempt, hourly, to drown out that Voice???

The most recent monotonous and monetized mantra in these United States decries the supposed divide among us.  This politicized pandemic of the human spirit gets foisted upon We the People by the corporate marketing schemers of human misery.  That divide is not 80/20.  It might be 90/10, a much smaller dichotomy than even the manipulative and greedy statisticians would have us think.

Therein resides the grotesque chasm within America, and likely within any other civilized nation fighting to save that civilization:  The obscene pitting of one group against another group, strategized to the bloody hilt by many a consultant who works for the ultimate parasite:  the politician.

The truly guilty parties, however, are the people who have allowed themselves to be divided, sliced-and-diced into the salami slices of politicized interest groups, all feeding at the public-money trough like putrid human pigs.  Where is the humanity in that cosmos?  And, where then, is the Ineffable?

I have seen many horrors in my life, most of them by the time I was an adolescent.  I’ve seen mother turn against child, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world; and, for her, it was.  I’ve seen brother turn on brother, for the sake of getting one up in the family-approval hierarchy.  I’ve seen adults prostitute their children, and then sob with slobbering self-pity when their children prostitute themselves.

In truth, I’ve seen too much.

With all that I have seen, however, I hold in my heart the dearest of mortal possessions, my spirit of rebellion against tyranny.  Because of that passion, I refuse to surrender my belief in a brighter day to the cynics, to the crude, to the crass who peddle fear, uncertainty, and doubt.

I defy the perverts of the soul, those emotionally crippled individuals who refuse to heal their handicap by seeing the light of day.  They revel in the coming of darkness so they can satiate their sensibility of self-directed despair.  They willfully insist on choosing misery over hope, fear over faith, and instant gratification over the humble patience of belief in that noble goal called tomorrow.

Transcendence over the ego-driven self is a daily aspiration for me.  It’s a large part of why I stay away from the digital business of fomenting froth over conflicts that are, in essence, not to be resolved in the space of earthly existence known as a lifetime.  Keeping abreast of what’s happening Out There is very often, for me, a matter of focusing on what is within my soul, as expressed by that rebel spirit I was born with, and hopefully, will carry to my grave.

The sinister spectre of tyranny is not new upon the face of this earth.  True, the modern autocrat is an automaton, but what else can be expected from any affluent society, stuffed to the gills with Enfants Terribles, and their cry-baby sense of entitlement.

The Pygmy Potentate of la France is one such globalist-puppet.  He resides in the rarefied air of his protective bubble, making pronouncements that sound idiotic, but he fancies himself the Heir of Versailles.

Jupiter does not like the way certain realities look to him in his orbit.  His hammy, ham-handed attempts (did someone hear a designer watch suddenly drop to the floor under a table?) to de-construct France through the import of Islamic terrorists isn’t working out.

His quickly whipped-up political party of 2017, « En marche ! » has turned into « Ça ne marche du tout ».  Always beware the Exclamation Mark in a political slogan, like the Ides of March (les Ides de mars).

Monsieur Jupiter does not like to be reminded of unpleasant realities.  Of any realities.  He bristled peevishly at the pointed reminder by the current U.S. Ambassador to France of the history of France, in particular of the history of Vichy, vis-à-vis The Jews and anti-semitism.

Tant pis.

Here’s some more unacceptable history for the faux-French, the opening paragraphs of Chapter 47 of THE DAWN:

The crime of opinion, le délit d’opinion, had become the law in Vichy France.  There was no freedom of thought.  There was no freedom of expression.  There was no freedom of the press.  Elections no longer existed; appointments were the vehicles of absolutist rule.  Even the presumed freedom in a village like Roussillon could quickly become restricted: Vichy and les préfets, the prefects hand-picked by Vichy, controlled villages, towns, cities, even regions.

Le préfet of police in each département in France had historically held enormous power since the creation of that post by Napoleon.  Under the auspices of the Vichy regime, the Vichy-picked préfet held inordinate power over the French in his jurisdiction.  The Vichy circular of October 1940 announced to all prefects that they were now “the propagandists of truth, of hope, and of liberating action, the defenders of a France bruised by twenty years of errors and follies.”