This holiday is the first one for which The Mr. and I can fully decorate the New House — with all of the furniture in it — and with all of the boxes unpacked!
During this past Easter, we were still settling in, getting used to the power of non-generator electricity, and to the power of getting a good night’s sleep. That power of repose is the key to living blissfully in the twilight zone of America Today.
I find that the decorations and ornaments that we already have — vanish in this space! But I am not getting cobwebs — real or otherwise — for provide further Halloween decor. The spaces I’ve dressed up are fine enough for me.
What is not fine enough for many online e-tailers is my current indication of domicile whereabouts. Repeatedly having to provide verification of physical residence, and evidentiary proof that I am actually living in the precise location that I’ve indicated, ad nauseam, on online orders, that typing activity has begun to bother me. In fact, it bugs me.
I’ve been informed by more than one vendor that the online ghouls and their satellite cameras have not yet caught up with me and my officially deeded dwelling-place. I’d like it to stay that way. In fact, if the online map-world snoops were to vaporize over-night, I would not shed a tear.
I recall in my previously owned house, on Peach Lane, in Newcastle, the Rat-Fink Nosy Yentas, known by all as the G-maps, snapped an overhead shot of my children, sometime during March 2003, while they were happily and busily playing outside in the long, wide, curved limestone driveway!
Absolutely blew my calm sensibility that I’d finally found a place where I could not be tracked and pinpointed!
I’m sure the FBI-ferret ghouls are currently too busy fabricating GPS for the Idiot who does not live in the White House. Or maybe They have handed that task to the 30-somethings running the non-Prez Projector Show. The latest pix and undoctored images of the unreal, surreal Reality Winner indicate there are a lot of resident-doctors in the House.
Personally, I feel quite left behind in terms of any awareness of the rushed construction of an actual rinky-dink doll house to replace the august, classical, iconic, and emblematic Oval Office of the historic White House.
After having experienced the laborious, highly permitted, and taxing process of building a Dream House; and after having skillfully threaded that instinctive needle to escape, flee, and otherwise survive The Crushing Costs of Building a Life Here in California — I feel confused as to how the perhaps unlicensed, non-unionized carpenters pulled off, in such a short space of time, that alarmingly bad wood trim with the executive blue paint on those phoney windows. Seasonal decorating for that stage set sure ain’t getting any help from Martha Stewart!
Maybe that paint is leftover from the Blue Chip enamel on my 2005 Cadillac CTS. I hear Wall Street heavily invested in this shambolic shambles at the Executive Sanitarium that has turned into a viper-filled snake pit on Penn Ave.
Someone once asked me if I’d named my first novel after that Cadillac engine, the Northstar, since my fictional work was penned in its final version during those years. I succinctly said: “No.”
Obviously, I sensed that any connection with symbolism and stars had completely gone wayyy over the head of this know-it-all. It’s a feeling I get often, very often, especially when dealing with a certain type of bureaucrat known as a lickspittle.
This guy probably thought that I’d made lavish use of the safety feature, OnStar, re-named BlondeStar, for this dumb blonde and her new car. I, however, had opted out of any approach to a Global Positioning System. When I drive (or whenever I used to drive, free-spiritedly, on the freeway, during those golden years of the Golden State selling gas that did not taxingly break my bank), I do not want anyone knowing where I am going! Dear Husband is put in the know, but that’s out of pure love!
both know that Apple is following my tail wherever it goes!
My present location is such a mystery to so many out there that I feel as one with my spirit animal, the spirit of my dearly departed black cat Annabella: this writer, like she, likes to not be seen, most of all when in public.
Long ago, I’d adopted the inner identity of Zorro, but now that there are so many Zeroes out there, in public office, trying, but failing miserably to mimic the rapier wit of Zorro, the interior-world fun of Zorro has almost been completely spoiled for me. They are killjoys, each and every civil serpent.
They’ve even begun to ruin the joy of makeup, as in cosmetics application. That reference is not meant to imply any false fronts, or superficial reality, or artificial, made-up faces and imagery. The art of maquillage, as seen on-screen, has been so grotesquely bungled by the Public Officials, performing their kabuki theatre, that I cannot bear to watch the overplayed, underplayed, misplayed drama. These government-thespians are clearly not ready for their closeups, although that annoying fraud-doctor in Studio D insists on only close-up shots.
The Norma Desmond-isms of any Cabinet Secretary, a term that in no way bears a sexist connotation: that unvarnished sight turns my stomach. I only glimpse at those glaring online pix every once in a while, but these people keep getting, and looking, weirder. Halloween happens every day for them!
The symbolism just flies, like a witch on a broom, over the heads of these Official Heads. There’s a blinking fool among them who wears mascara! But only on the top lashes. This freaky fonctionnaire likes the open-eye look whenever he poses for the camera. It’s a cosmetics trick that I also employ, particularly when wishing to affect the dewy, wide-eyed, innocent look.
I’m not sure it’s working for this clueless coward. There’s a huge difference between the appearance of naïveté of a virtuous person, and the feigning of a clear conscience and clean hands by a professional liar, without a conscience, but with hands filthy from blood money and soft from lack of real work.
Of late, I have been researching the samurai. Basically, that warrior class functioned, with much more swordplay and equestrian skills, like the ancient knights of medieval France. During that historic epoch, the provinces of France reigned supreme, before the centralization of royal power in Paris brought the knights in shining armor to where we all are today in France, and in European, history.
The Edo period in Japan ended with its irrevocable fall during 1867 and the restoration of the Meiji. The termination of the shogunate, or the military dictator government of the shōgun, ended a way of life for the samurai, a warrior class that endured from 1192 to 1867.
In this ancient nation of Japan, the momentous replacement of the samurai and the shōgun, by the Emperor, the Imperial family, and a professional, modernized, Westernized military, was a bell that could not be un-rung. Emperor Meiji the Great decided that he was the modern War Lord.
This first monarch of the Empire of Japan did succeed in transforming that nation from an isolationist feudal state to an industrialized world power. He brought Japan onto the world stage, thereby earning his title Meiji the Good, and Meiji the Great.
Emperor Meiji chose to aggressively use the technological Westernization to distance Japan from the backward nations of Korea and China. Beneficently, those decisions fostered a modern, productive era for the island nation of Japan. Tragically, the exercise of the dominance of Japan over its neighboring countries, by later Emperors, led to a blood-desire to enslave those peoples. The era of Emperor Shōwa, more commonly known outside of Japan as Hirohito, led to the imperial expansion and warfare of the 1930s. The horrific pre-emptive attack on Pearl Harbor by Imperial Japan altered the course of history, in some ways that remain unresolved.
History, and the progress of a free world, demand resolution to a festering, unresolved military conflict, in one way or another. The finality of Communist China has been set into motion, and it cannot be undone, regardless of what the billionaire banksters and the trillionaire-governments of any nation say, or do, or fake saying and doing. The rise of Communist China had been swift, ever since the much-maligned and much-mimicked Richard Nixon “opened” China to the world in the 1970s, and established a geopolitical strategy that included a Soviet Russia.
The natural order of the world, of liberty, and of truly successful economies is not the Communist way. It certainly does not constitute the house of mirrors that IS Red China. The term, red, typically refers to the commie-aspect of the rulers, at least in the heady initial phases of a brutal dictatorship that enslaves its own people to amass power at the top of the command pyramid. At first, the workers work, because they have no choice.
During those middle phases, the redness of the nation might apply to the sweat and tears used to pump up an economy on the backs of its imprisoned workers, while the military at the top of the fetid power pyramid grows fat and rich. And lazy.
During the final phases of the ungodly regime of any communist dictator, the word, red, describes the bloody end. That gruesome ending is not swift, but it is certain. The economy of China is an ancient mercantile model, built with the “central planning” of communism. And communism, no matter who re-invents it, is an evil scheme that destroys all those who willingly enter into it.
China never really truly opened up to the rest of the world. They lured the rest of the world into their lair of vicious, soulless brutes by diabolically crafting a Ponzi scheme from which only the greedy, godless demons in Mao suits could enduringly profit.
When the corrupt corporate men of China, Inc. started to wear Westernized designer business suits, the writing was on the wall for any capitalist company. Today, China, Inc. faces the facts of its own demise: a population that refuses to give birth to future generations, or to move from the provinces into the polluted pits called cities.
Enter into the dragon at your own peril. I weep not for the American investors and corporations who have recklessly endangered the freedoms of their own nation, all for the rapacious grabbing of more and more and more capital and loot and power and illicit cash. Those Americans are coming a cropper. They are the living proof of all that the Chinese government ogres believe Americans to be: pigs who live only through gross appetites and never-ending buying sprees of crap and worthless junk that falls apart fast. What is really falling apart fast is the worthless junk of China, Inc.
The immoral power mongers and money-grubbers in the United States did not sell out their country; those traitors sold their souls to a foreign nation that will betray them worse than they betrayed their own magnificent United States.
I do not weep for those filthy-rich criminals. I do weep for the patriots among us, those heroes who have paid the price for the sins of Americans for whom the almighty dollar has cost them their souls.
Desperate men, and women, eventually make mistakes, and then they trap themselves. The traitors among us, in America, and around the world, have become snakes in the corner of their traps. I’m not too sure they can free themselves from those cul de sacs of corruption and depraved currency.
The fall of the Soviet Union arrived to a stunned U.S. State Department, but not to Ronald Reagan, who knew the crumbling of the evil empire was well underway by the time he’d become one of our greatest Presidents.
The fall of Communist China arrives to stun only the double-dealers, here, and throughout the world. Those vermin shall be bit by the venomous snakes in the grass of that ancient nation that destroyed itself from within. America strives day and night to prevail over that fate.
The fat-cat traitors of this nation will rot in hell, or, as I have been apprised by a classics scholar, they will be eating dust for eternity.
During the Edo period, a fully standardized system of classification emerged for the samurai. Only full samurai were permitted to wear two swords in battle. The pride of the full samurai must inspire the patriots among us who not only can sort out the reality from the illusion, but who will act upon it.
With two swords of justice.