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Eve of the New Year 2022

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Last night I had a very telling dream. It was not a strange dream, at least not for me. I was telling my Dear Friend that if I’d moved to France, I would have missed America terribly. I also stated to her that the space of time during which I wrote THE DAWN and then began to translate it, those years were the decade during which I said goodbye to . . .


so many people and places.


Yes, those statements are entirely true. I’ve been told by the people who truly know me that my urgent need to move forward in my life — in many ways and in many directions — prompted — The Fiction.

Looking back, I can, of course, see, with clarity, the outlines and details, even the completeness, of the events and places and people who were so very instrumental in helping me to forge my path to destinations where they would join me “only” in spirit. That “only” is a magnificent dimension.


During those precious moments of my past, those individuals had demanded of me much more than I’d felt at that time that I could grant to them. I’ve since come to realize that I did all right in giving to each person what had been required from me. I’d instinctively and intuitively imparted, to each dear one, the essential of whatever had been exigent and lacking, at the time: a gift from the heart.


I’d done a very good job; I’d performed quite up to snuff. In fact, I did much better than I’d thought myself equipped to do.


I’ve been told that such self-doubting attitudes stem from a childhood of untold neglect. I’d furthermore been accorded very little, if any, credit for sizable honorable and heroic acts. In the morally upside-down world that was my family of origin, I was instead blamed for the crises, calamities, sins and woes caused and committed by others, some of which took place before I was born!

The only arena in which I garnered any positive recognition was The Classroom, and believe me, I earned every single award. I excelled to the point of being extremely disliked by my peers. The Home Reject might be The School Success, but don’t count on affirmation or praise (banish the thought of popularity) from your classmates, or even from all of your teachers! The jaundiced eye can be found in any crowd.


It doesn’t matter whether or not you’re consciously aware of striving toward that Higher Goal. The crucial rule is to do it. That odd sensation of somehow reaching for something unseen but elevated, it’s not a feeling to be dismissed, much less understood at the time of its realization. Go with it; flow with it — to wherever it takes you.


Oddly enough, the “flow chart” or emotional river upon which the earnest voyager rides can be mapped time-wise through seasonal products. Everyone needs guideposts. The products of the season work just fine for me!


In assisting Dear Husband today with the Grocery List for the New Year’s Eve and Day meals, I quipped:

“Let us not kid ourselves that there is any romaine out there. Maybe in Ukraine there’s romaine, but not in California.”


Our New Year’s Day Dinner this year is beef tenderloin and green beans. The recipe for the tenderloin comes straight out of Samantha’s Cookbook. That collection of splendid Victorian recipes, along with that American Girls doll, were girlhood gifts from me to Dear Daughter.


The meal plan calls for a wonderful hearts of romaine salad. But a head of lettuce, in any edible and non-bacterial shape or form, has been impossible for me to find during the past five or six years in my region of California. Ergo, my comment on romaine from the Ukraine.


I do not know all of the powerful forces and the powerless forces at “work” here in this State of California. I am, however, all too aware of the major drunk-drivers of this mayhem:


the official institutional incompetence, plopped onto the usual impetus of greed, the anarchy of graft, and the inertia of commissar-idiocy.

The entire ruckus of cloddish non-governance has threatened to make a complete dog’s dinner of any sensible, well-balanced and nutritious meal that I wish to create and put on my private dinner table. During the past two years, I have therefore gloriously lived, and eaten, in defiance of the ungodly and obscene official fiats handed down to We the Peons:


Do not serve any food to six or more people. Maintain that inane distance of 2.19 metres, in compliance with smothering the mouth — between bites and swallows — with the worthless mask.


I knew from the jump, at the dawn of 2020, that the morons, who make this stuff up and shove it in our faces, don’t eat this tripe. Why should I?


I believe in the New Year tradition of First Footing. I do not give one pinky toe of credence to bawbags and their petulant provisos, trampling upon my life and my liberties with the club foot of government, on any day of any year, ad infinitum.


We must entrust our sacred holidays to the Holy Spirit that enlivened the blunderbuss. We have to dare to share our chip-and-dipping. And we need to take the global out of every-day grocery shopping.

With the exceptions of my holiday purchases of tiramisu, direct from Italy; shortbread direct from Scotland; oatmeal cookies and Dubliner cheese direct from Ireland; Comté cheese direct from France; and my year-round supply of tea that is shipped directly from Great Britain, my typical weekly grocery purchases come primarily from local suppliers.


The moldy-oldy mantra, Buy Local, Think Global, was swallowed wholesale by the wily or naive nincompoops in my nation who somehow failed to see that the globalist wrecking machine was wrecking local economies. They were the ones they were waiting for. They’re still waiting for . . . the nirvana that the Other Person fiendishly keeps spiking.


Shopping locally and buying seasonally are two traditions from my New Jersey girlhood that I’ve resolutely kept throughout my life. Those practical practices always come in handy, especially when the Internationals are crumbling in free-fall collapse, economically and morally. The freedom of the fall is just about the only freedom that’s been permitted in this bogus-money-spinner catastrophe of the past two years.

During those two years, our freedoms got grotesquely filched by those phony bogie men and women as they slid down their own slippery slope of flim-flam and fraud. The corporately funded prostitutes known as politicians went to bed with the dirty dogs of deception, and now they are waking up with flea-bites the size of their lies.


I’ll take the high road while They take the low road. And I’ll be at my dinner table before they cancel New Year’s Dinner!


We’ve got a fight, no, we’ve got many fights, ahead of us in this new year. We must regain our illegitimately swiped liberties, although there is no legitimate manner in which to strip a free human being of God-given liberty.


The battle is on for any patriot to regain his liberties, and to reclaim them in ways that will ensure those liberties will ne’er be pilfered again: Not through a pompous puff of fear-driven spittle; or through the despicable propaganda of scapegoating and pitting human against human, all while the power-mongers swill wine, mock us, and make further misery among us, the rabble and the riff-raff those lazy elites none too secretly despise.

I’d say “rub their noses in it,” but they’ve gotten used to the foul odor of their own fetid filth. They think that we, the Citizenry, shall forget their vulgar swipes at the inalienable rights that centuries of heroes died to attain for us. We’ll not forget.


We’ve got a mission of honor, of retribution, and of remembrance — for all of those who went before, for all of those who were sacrificed on the altar of this latest power-grab, and for all of those who might yet be immorally slaughtered by those pigs at their stinking globalist troughs.


We’ve got noble promises to keep. They’ve only the promises they never intended to keep.


Every morning is a new unsung melody in the song of life. We can either sing with joy or with sorrow, with fond souvenir or with resentful regret. I open my heart to the abundant yet unknown hope that springs eternal with the dawn.


The seasons of your life are neither numbered nor finite; neither are the products of your seasons. Let those seasons be prolific. Let those seasons produce wondrous works that reach toward the stars, and endure for all time.