Friday 13 August 2021
The Spirits Rule
In the spirit of Who Knows what holiday/event/occasion will be COVID-cancelled next by Guvmint Fiat, I’ve decided to celebrate All Hallows’ Eve in mid-August. Besides, every day is Halloween in America, what with devious demons hiding behind Puritanical disguises and straight-laced false faces out there in the public square. The Monster Mash is the new national theme song!
The grave-robbers of last year could soon be the candy-snatchers of this year. The Health Czars and Czarinas watch those taxpayer calorie counts and sugar-highs from their spooky public health pulpits on-high in the States Legislatures and, lest we forget, the U.S. Congress.
Of late, I’ve really needed to apply some levity to the COVID Spectre from Wuhan, that bug we’ve all been bugged by and are still trying to flee — for at least a year, going on two years. A flock of Bay Area escapees, on their way to Tahoe, came whizzing through my town today, in Placer County. They stopped to shop at the local produce store. There they were, all clad in masks, looking horrified that I was also there — MASKLESS.
FYI, I’ve been maskless since the start of this farce in March 2020! I did my restrained-level best not to cough and sneeze. (It is pigweed-allergy season.) You don’t shout dire in a crowded store filled with panic freaks.
Those whack-job Nanny-State devotees are aided-and-abetted in abridging our God-given freedoms by their fear-peddling, power-mongering Government Quacks and Ghouls. Those hedge-fund globalist pigs, they just can’t let go of their death-grip on the tinpot tyrant-grabber thrills!
The timeless spirit of Shakespeare therefore rules!
And the whimsical spirit of my black cat rules!
Those miraculous spirits rule — over all of the 21st-century collectivist crackpots in the Land of Oz, aka California. The wizards behind the curtain, and the witches in front of the media camera compose the lies that We, the Citizens, are all supposed to believe. While the pompous pinheads at the top of the smoke-and-mirrors pyramid cannot peel their wraith-like claws off of their witches brew of double, double toil and trouble, fire burn and cauldron bubble.
Aye, their deeds are done.
Fair is foul, and foul is fair.
And, I, this day, in California, must hover through the kultursmog and breathe the smoky, chunky filthy air, concocted by the Dixie fire-burn and election campaign-cauldron bubble.
Those crooked career sycophants gotta be commended for their extra-ordinary efforts of a lifetime to give all of us royal pains, since every one of them shall share in the corporate gains, all of those COVID-profits.
The stench is enough to make any spirit sick! To make the dis-spirited pine for spirits!
The spirit of my beloved sprite, my black cat, Annabella, is especially with me because she is no longer physically at my side. She has not thrice mewed (actually she cawed), but I nonetheless sense that We, the Citizens, shall soon do the deeds with only the most decisive names:
Turn a deaf ear to the phonies, imposters, and counterfeit doctors. Realize your unknown inner power. Leave fear behind you for the morrow, and for evermore —
To roustie up some filet of fenny snake, eye of newt, toe of frog, tongue of dog (oops, forgot the wool of bat, but we are going to leave the bat out of this brew), adder’s fork and blindworm’s sting. We must re-double our efforts to possess, once again, the nuts and bolts of living. We must thunderbolt from out of the blue — to achieve The Real Science, and Pursue Real Life, not a virtual one, anew.
“Who’s zooming whom” is the question we must all ask.
Or we shall all be reduced to gall of goat and slips of yew, sliver’d in the moon’s eclipse!
We seek not to gather a baboon’s blood, just to rid ourselves of the jackanapes in the bloated bureaucracy. We wish to banish the harpies, the weird sisters, and the drabs in the health ministry!
Where oh where do we start to depart the graveyard of the Ogre Officeholders’ making?
First, by calling a death a death.
This morning, I read in an online whine-blog about the Situation, probably boilerplate by now, of the Oldest Child, The Daughter, squeezing out her two younger siblings — the sons — from the family inheritance.
The Chief Complainant spoke of his parents that passed.
If there is one verbal misuse that infuriates me to no end, it is the use of “pass” instead of “pass away.”
A person passes gas, he passes an exam, he passes a car on the highway, he passes the salt across the table, he passes the hat. But he does not PASS into Heaven or Hell.
He passes away.
Sad, but true.
If an individual cannot cough up enough courage to state the complete and obvious finality of this fatal situation, as in, She passed away — he ought not say anything at all. The deceased person deserves a better acknowledgement than to be reduced to flatulence.
I do believe this 21st-century erroneous euphemism for “to die” is analogous to a Victorian purism from the 19th and 20th centuries, one that I used to hear too often during my childhood. The petty grandiloquence was, in fact, read aloud at the breakfast table. That term came straight from The Obits, the newspaper section that was the only Morning Read by a rather macabre woman with the title of Mother. She read Death Notices as if they were Birth Announcements. Her voice emphatically enunciated:
This past year has been filled with succumbing — with death — and with surviving relatives behaving in the same way that those despicable kin behaved all of their lives — only worse. The official leader of the grievers was the toxic hypocrite that you could not tolerate to be around!
Be thankful for those oppressive social-distancing
entombment edicts that the big-wig tricksters did not ever follow. The socially-distanced funeral was, perhaps,
a Godsend. Putting miles and miles and
miles and miles of intentional separation between bad-blooded blood relations
mercifully walls off the crocodile-tearful from the truly woeful.
That arrangement was just about the only sincerely and happily practiced tradition within my family of origin!
The death of a parent is an indescribably sad event, no matter what that person, who succumbed, meant to you, to your siblings, to your loved and unloved ones. During this past year and a half, the government goblins exacerbated existing heartaches, but is that not what those career poltroons usually do? Those political corpse-creators dug their own graves and sealed their own fates, far more than those of your beloveds.
Do not complicate your grief by blaming cowards for being cowardly. Do not treat a last will and testament as the last you will ever know of your loved one who has gone to his Reward.
Place faith in the spirit, not in mammon. That cock-eyed contrivance called avarice is precisely how the spread of a Chinese virus became a means by which the frauds-in-office seized power over free people.
Your spirit, and your will, are stronger than their political lust for power. Such lewdness revealed itself, quite quickly, during tragedy, but that timing is consistent with the course of human events, and with the will of God.
Heirlooms, mementoes, and those precious tactile souvenirs from an inheritance are all too often fought over as a way to quantify the amount of love given by the dearly departed. The tangible remnants of a person’s life do not ensure your lasting memory of her, or your sensations of having been loved by her Yes, the exquisite comb that she once used, it is a token to be treasured. The remembrance of your combing her beautiful hair is worth much more, infinitely more, in the mind’s eye, and in a grateful heart.
I was perhaps fortunate that my mother used “heirlooms”, such as they were in a poor family in New Jersey, as weapons against this “black sheep” in a sick and sorry brood. I guess you could say that parent weaponized the inheritance. It was not an act of originality. Clans, kinfolk and tribes have been doing it for centuries. The ancestral vampires arrive on the bequeathing-scene long before the estate and yard sales are set up to draw in the legacy vultures from far and near.
The only childhood photograph of my father, who passed away when I was ten, was blatantly given to an older sibling who, just as blatantly, let me know that she was in possession of it. One friend, trying to comfort me, said, “Can’t a copy be made of it?”
“That’s not the point,” I replied. “The point is to deprive one child of something she dearly wants, by overtly giving it to a sibling to whom it means so little.”
The spirits of the dead, instead of a physical reminder, have thus journeyed with me, and journey with me still.
And, so, to combat the spirit of the nastiness that so many have suffered during the past year and a half, a noxious spirit that still hangs in the air of this Post-Covid Year, I offer a poem, a true work of art, by the immortal Edgar Allen Poe. The hellish ghost of demonic, even spiteful, dispossession can be counter-acted only by true love, a sentiment that does not die once a person is no more on this earth.
The greatest mystery from Mr. Poe may be the mystery of the cause of his death. I subscribe to the rabies theory, although the number of contributing factors were many, including tuberculosis and alcoholism. In any event, Poe died, succumbed and definitely passed away on 7 October 1849, in Baltimore, at the age of forty.
Born in Boston, Massachusetts on 19 January 1809, Poe did not live a happy life, but one could hardly have expected a sense of contentment and bliss from a child who was abandoned during his first year on this earth by his father, and was then further orphaned the next year through the death of his mother. He was raised, though never legally adopted, by the Allans, a married couple in Richmond, Virginia, with whom he would have a tempestuous association.
Poe flunked out of West Point as an officer cadet; but the fact that he’d received a commission to attend that prestigious military academy indicates a dedicated willingness on the part of his politically-connected sponsors to steer this gambling rambler in a disciplined direction. Poe, however, set his sights on writing poetry, prose, and fiction. The history, and the excellence, of a truly American literature owe much to the single-minded decision (some might say, obsession) of this American original to create from his interior visions written works that, to this day, can be viewed as troubled, haunting, freakish, even crazy.
I grew up reading many fictional works by Edgar Allen Poe, both classroom-assigned and voluntary. At times, his writing approaches the monotonously predictable, even the tasteless. After the tacky past year of gaslighting-by-government-dictate, at least here in California, I now regard the bats-in-the-belfry plot lines and morbid atmosphere of Poe to be prophetic, almost visionary.
His influence was profound in literary circles, especially among the French, and particularly on Charles Baudelaire. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle is said to have credited Poe with having breathed life into the detective story. The Mystery Writers of America present an annual award of distinction known as the Edgar.
Breathing life into rational foreboding is our current way of life. There persists that unmerciful miasma of the politically manufactured dread, a bloodless health hoax that threatens to hang for evermore in the air, no matter where that air is. Those Ravens, the stark ravers and raving public health officials, are quothing the perilous variants all the time, for evermore, but especially on the Night’s Plutonian shore — even as we all know that COVID is not for evermore.
Be a dear, and cast the nastiness out from your sight. Banish it from your powerful aura. The things we do not see are just as often benevolent as they are diabolical. Draw into the light your own grace and goodness. And then let that little light of yours shine, wherever it is needed most on God’s imperfectly populated planet.
My dear dear friend, whose next-door neighbors claimed they were witches, and formed part of a coven: her spirit goes with me in this dramatic reading. When I told this Dear Friend during the Halloween of 2016 that a certain forevermore loser-Candidate for the WH, that secret midnight hag — only gets let out of the house on Halloween night — she told me that my truthful take on reality was, as always, a classic — for evermore.
And so with this classic spirit of All Hallow’s Eve in August, I hereby present “Spirits of the Dead” by Edgar Allen Poe.
This poem was originally entitled “Visits of the Dead” during its publication in 1827 as part of the collection of poems, Tamerlane and Other Poems. Why the name was changed remains a mystery, as well it should. The second title is infinitely more fitting, more precise, more otherworldly.
Spirits of the Dead
Thy soul shall find itself alone
'Mid dark thoughts of the grey tomb-stone;
Not one, of all the crowd, to pry
Into thine hour of secrecy.
Be silent in that solitude,
Which is not loneliness — for then
The spirits of the dead, who stood
In life before thee, are again
In death around thee, and their will
Shall overshadow thee; be still.
The night, though clear, shall frown,
And the stars shall not look down
From their high thrones in the Heaven
With light like hope to mortals given,
But their red orbs, without beam,
To thy weariness shall seem
As a burning and a fever
Which would cling to thee for ever.
Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish,
Now are visions ne'er to vanish;
From thy spirit shall they pass
No more, like dew-drop from the grass.
The breeze, the breath of God, is still,
And the mist upon the hill
Shadowy, shadowy, yet unbroken,
Is a symbol and a token.
How it hangs upon the trees,
A mystery of mysteries!