SUPER TUESDAY’S SNAKES AND LADDERS

One board game I disliked as a child was called, “snakes and ladders”. I didn’t like it because skill played no part. One was at the mercy of the roll of the dice, as you progressed towards the finish line. If you landed on a “snake”, you fell backwards, and if you landed on a “ladder”, you leapt forward.

The only way to control your destiny in such a board game is to cheat. You must gain some sort of control over how the dice roll. This may be illegal, but you do stand a far better chance of winning, unless your opponent is better at cheating, (or else catches you cheating, in which case the game may dissolve into a brawl).

Cheating seems to be how the game of politics is played in “The Swamp”, (IE: Washington DC.) They feel they are “the elite” and are smarter than the “deplorables”, (IE: Fellow Citizens). They do not really believe all men are created equal, nor that they should love their neighbor. Rather they feel that they should control their neighbor, because they are smart and the rabble (IE: Fellow Citizens) are ignorant. However the rabble are becoming roused, and the elite are increasingly fearful they are losing control. A storm is over Washington this “Super Tuesday.”

It shows up especially well on radar:

The funny thing is that elite in Washington DC would laugh at the idea that the physical reality of the weather has anything to do with the social climate they create with their cheating, even as they try to sell the idea to the Public that the Public is guilty of causing Global Warming.

The fact of the matter is that Creation is a unity. No man is an island, and all greedy attempts at segregation deny the reality of God’s plan for universal oneness, and do so in ways that stir up actual, physical storms. We do control the atmosphere we abide in, not by throwing virgins into volcanoes, nor by driving about in impractical electric vehicles, but more in the manner that the atmosphere of a movie is controlled by background mood music.

A historical example of the uncanny connection between men’s deeds and the weather appears in the fact that, when Hitler’s invasion of Poland forced even the peace-loving Chamberlain to conclude to his cabinet, “Well then, gentlemen, it is war”, there was a brilliant flash of lightning and deafening roar of thunder outside the House of Lords in London. Just a coincidence? I think not. It is as Shakespeare’s Hamlet stated, “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy”, though perhaps we should update that to, “There are more things in heaven and earth, Hillary, than are dreamt of in your philosophy”.

The elite can write all the silly laws they want in their mire, thinking they control the vastness of weather (Global Warming preventions) and the minutia of viruses, (Coronavirus vaccines), but they don’t control either. They are pretenders.

They are desperate to cling to the powers they imagine they have gained, through their pretense. These words I write will most definitely be censored, though I write them to warn them, because I pity them. Actions have reactions, and, if one reaps what one sows, the swamp creatures are sowing thistles for themselves.

I’ve been addicted myself, and therefore have compassion towards addicts. I am part of a group striving to help youth escape fentanyl addiction. I wish I could also be of help to the elite, but they don’t admit they are addicted. (To power.)

The “swamp” needs to learn what fentanyl addicts have learned. To get what you desire is hell, compared to what you get when you suffer the agony of withdrawal symptoms.

The “swamp” scoffs at the idea I have anything to offer them, but are so scared of hearing me that they censor me (and millions of others).

They call me a “bitter clinger” (though I’ve never bought a gun) though they are the ones who cling, desperately, to power.

They display contempt towards the hands that feed them, dismissing the breadbasket of the nation as “flyover country.” Poor fools, can they not see what they are earning when they bite the hand that feeds? Don’t they see actions have reactions?

I’d like to go off on a long tangent at this point about the laws of Karma; of “reaping what you sow,” And also of “killing the goose that laid the golden egg”. Often it is better to deny yourself than to get what you want (but don’t need.)

The so-called “deplorable” tend to be poor, and must constantly sacrifice just to get by. They constantly deny themselves. Consequently they know of a sweet freedom, which those, who don’t deny themselves, are ignorant about.

What is this freedom you get? The fentanyl addict wants to know. They long to be free of the constant craving. They hunger to know about freedom, but the swamp is craven, and doesn’t want to know. However, as the swamp is suppose to be representing “the land of the free”, they damn well should want to know. What is this freedom I’m speaking about?

What is the freedom? It is the freedom from being controlled by a craving. Rather than hankering for money or power or fame, you can take them or leave them. You are not some child who will tantrum if they don’t get some toy, nor some adolescent who grieves greatly over infatuations. You just accept the Now.

Donald Trump seems a representative of such freedom. He is not controlled by the “swamps” cravings. All he has earned, through his wish to help us achieve the freedom enshrined in our constitution, is monstrous harassment, yet he remains free.

There is something very attractive about such freedom. It is inherently friendly. When Trump visited the border, he did not give the middle finger to illegal aliens, across the Rio Grande. Instead he cheerfully waved, and an excited voice returned from across the river: “Trump! Trump!” Trump laughed, “Even they like me! Isn’t it incredible?”

Yes, it is indeed incredible. It is also incredible that the governor standing up most for America’s integrity can’t stand up. In his wheelchair he stands taller than many who swagger, up to their armpits in the mire of the swamp.

It is incredible and even a little dream-like, and not a good sign for the swamp that despises impossible dreams, this Super Tuesday. Where they were sure they had loaded the dice and would land on a ladder, they see themselves landing in a swamp seething with snakes.

LOCAL VIEW –Chickidea–

from cdn.birdwatchingdaily.com

With so much dour news emanating from The Swamp, I’ve found little reason to be optimistic and hopeful recently, and I always find I have to make a concerted effort to cling to my belief life is beautiful, when in fact life looks downright ugly.

This immediately brings me to a subject some object to, which is that our sense of beauty tends to be very subjective, and downright fickle. It also is quite personal. I recall, as a tender adolescent, being somewhat astonished by how my face looked pretty good in the mirror on some days, but on others looked ghastly. As a young scientist I understood it was the same face. How could it appear so different, and in some ways completely opposite?

Usually it seemed to involve whether I felt loved or not. If Nancy (or Betsy or Debby) smiled at me in the high school hallways, the face in the mirror looked handsome and debonair, but if the same female sulked, the face in the mirror was blotched by acne and had a vile, shit-eating smile. It was absurd, and on some deep level I recognized the absurdity. My boyhood diary at one point sardonically comments, “I looked bad in the mirror this morning. What’s it mean, Froid?” (I did not know how to spell “Freud”.)

Yet the passage of a half century hasn’t changed things all that much. When you are smiled at, you feel beautiful, and in fact are beautiful. You become radiant. People want to draw close to you. But when you are frowned at, you become depressed and neurotic, and people avoid you like the plague or corona virus. As Ella Willcox noted in her 1887 poem “Solitude”, and O Henry noted again in 1907, “When you laugh, the world laughs with you. Weep, and you weep alone.”

In a better world we might show more sympathy, and obey the more ancient Roman proverb which ended, “Weep, and the world weeps with you.” But, sadly, a great deal of emphasis in the modern world involves whether you are accepted as politically correct, or cancelled by Cancel Culture; whether you appear on Facebook, YouTube and Twitter with lots of “likes”, or have been censored and banned from such platforms. If you take all this nonsense too seriously it can involve how you look in the mirror. If a collection of idiots and Karens call you praiseworthy, you appear charming and lovable, but if the same idiots and Karens disdain you, the mirror states you are deplorable, irredeemable, and a bitter clinger.

I knew this was nonsense at age sixteen, and nothing that has passed in the last fifty years has changed my mind in the slightest. I have always been a counter-snob to all snobbery. People who we now scoff at as “virtue signaling” were mocked fifty years ago as “slaves to status symbols.” For there has always been a deeper awareness that true beauty is not a shallow and superficial thing. True beauty is the reflection of Truth, and Love.

That word “Love” is crucial. As we age we discovered that Nancy (or Betsy or Debby) was not God. (I assume women discover the same thing about men.) We move on to discovering that owning a 1966 Mustang is not love. And so on and so forth. In fact, if we truly progress spiritually, we pretty much call all status symbols garbage, all positions of fame and power garbage, all political correctness garbage, and tell Hollywood, psychologists, and all bossy law-makers to go get screwed, for there is only one true author of Love, and that is God.

But if we fail to make such rapid spiritual progress, (and most of us fail), then we tend to get hooked on some worldly thing that makes us feel beautiful. Maybe it is heroin. When we take it we feel beautiful, and are actually attractive when high, so people want to draw closer to us, but later, when withdrawal sets in, everyone makes themselves scarce. Or maybe our hook is gambling, and when winning we feel beautiful, and walk with a woman on either arm, but when losing our complexation becomes green and everyone avoids us. Or maybe our hook is winning elections or writing hit records or appearing in blockbuster movies, and success makes us feel beautiful, but there is a down side as well. But for most the hook is less extravagant, and is more modest, the simple successes of a good marriage or a small business, but here too there is a down side. The good marriage will be wrecked, because one spouse will die. Must this make what was beautiful become ugly? In like manner the owner of the best small business, which succeeds with amazing compassion for both employees and customers, faces mortality, for he or she too must die. Does that make what was beautiful ugly?

No. I asserted this at age sixteen and I assert it at age sixty-eight. Beauty is beautiful. It doesn’t matter if you are a heroin-addicted, male whore of a Swamp politician who will throw you under the bus tomorrow, the glimpse of beauty you saw in your rise and fall was the real deal. Beauty is beautiful.

Ugly is ugly because it in some way denies the fact beauty is beautiful. However this is foolish. It is like shadows denying they exist because of light, and instead attempting to congregate and plot ways to attack the light, ignoring a glaring fact: The moment shadows step from the shadows to attack the light, they cease to exist.

What I just wrote was profound, if I do say so myself, but I confess it is not obvious, at this moment in the history of the United States. Currently the shadows are gathering, but haven’t yet fully stepped out to attack the light. Ugly is ugly, at the moment.

With what is ugly currently seeming triumphant, I seem to have chosen the wrong side. I haven’t. I know beauty will win, in the end.

But, in the meantime, a fellow like me has to run a small business and be patriarch of a small family, midst a global ugliness, and I can’t expect to see much beauty in my day-to-day dealings. Yet I crave beauty. I need to inhale some beauty, if I am expected to exhale any in my day-today dealings.

In order to inhale beauty in an ugly world, I do what I did in school in 1959. I look out the window, and not at the black board. I remove my nose from the grindstone and sniff the roses. I shut off the news and walk out into the view.

God made that view for us to enjoy, and even in rotton weather there is usually something beautiful to see, if you look for it. In the springtime it becomes easier. People refer to it as “communing with nature.” I was describing it in the comments of a recent post:

I was out with the children at my Childcare and watched a bald eagle battle the north winds. I get a thrill seeing eagles, for there were no bald eagles to be seen around here the first sixty years of my life, but the kids are rather ho-hum about such occurrences, for eagles are just an everyday bird to them.

Today the eagle was pretending to fish but the ducks knew he (or she) will eat a duck if need be, so they were zinging all over the place as he (or she) innocently looked for trout. But the chaos of thirty ducks and lone eagle was occurring in a thirty mile an hour gale from the north. What amazed me was that the birds behaved as if the wind was a minor matter, like the “temperature at game time” for baseball players.

A few weeks back I got a crick in my neck watching an eagle battle his (or her) way upwind in a fifty-mile-an-hour gale. At first I thought he was being battered, because he seemed staggered, lowering first one shoulder and then the other, like a boxer getting pummeled. But then I noticed he wasn’t being beaten backwards. In fact he was making remarkable progress, moving north at around fifteen miles an hour despite the winds whooshing south at fifty. It seemed that (and I’m guessing) that when he lowered first one shoulder and then another he (or she) was expertly tacking upwind with a swiftness and dexterity all skippers of all sailboats would envy.

One might wonder if birds are superior to humans, considering the remarkable things they do. They do what they do without a college education, utilizing some thing we do not understand, but pretend we understand by calling it “instinct”.

Considering a lone eagle can tack upwind better than a billionaire with an expert crew of twenty on the most lavish yacht can, one might wonder what is the use of human endeavor. We cannot even match a bird.

However there is an equivalent of instinct in birds, which does occur in mortal humans. It is something we do not understand, but pretend we understand by calling it “intuition.”

It has occurred to me that when I am feeling uglified by the world, and go out for a walk and wind up feeling beautiful, it is because I have been loved. When “communing with nature” my intuition (whatever that is) is communing with the Creator, and the Creator doesn’t want us miserable, and will rain love down upon us if we only allow it.

Thinking along these lines got me a little cross-eyed the other morning. It is a bit humbling to go for a walk and think the Creator is right there. I couldn’t quite tell if I felt tiny or enormous. But I was feeling loved, as the north winds had ceased and the sunshine was kindly. It occurred to me the spring birds would have come out from hiding, with the wind ceasing, and I should listen for harmony.

Rather than spring birds, a couple of winter chickadees came flitting out to serenade me. They are tiny birds, and very perishable in cold winds, yet they don’t fly south and survive extreme cold by avoiding wind, and becoming balls of fluff in calm places. You will never see them at a feeder in a cold wind, and even in a light breeze they will always face upwind, to keep the chill from getting under their feathers. But this morning was mild, and with winter behind them they were attending to some sort of territorial discussion, singing their “spring soon” call back and forth at each other. It seemed a bit like dueling banjos.

The call is two notes, descending, but these two birds were not agreeing on what key to sing in. The first sung an A followed by an F, and the second sung a G-sharp followed by an E. I was listening to the sequence of notes, telling God it was sweet and wondering if I could write a song with that sequence in it, when I noticed their calls were coming closer together. I knew what was coming, and with a sense of dread awaited hearing A sung with G-sharp, followed by F sung with E. They did it, and the discord made my fillings hurt. Perhaps they noticed my pained expression, for they only sung the discord twice before flitting away. I looked up at the sky and said, “Oh Lord; that was absolutely horrible!”

Then I burst out laughing, for it really did seem a great joke: A couple of chickadees attempting to be as ugly as Washington D.C. I laughed so hard I slapped my knee, but then I noticed a lady coming down the road walking her dog.

I set my lip. One needs to be cautious, when communing with nature in public.

THE PUSHBACK: Fragrance of Roses or Flagrance of Bozos

The so-called “Swamp” has a horror of being drained. Not merely will a draining result in the loss of the perks of power, but it also will involve the exposure of abuse of power.

Formerly such exposure was hidden by hypocrisy. Politicians kept their cheeks as smoothly shaved as choirboys, thinking naive people would think they were innocent. They liked to portray their “resistance” as if it was a noble thing, with a capital “R”: “The Resistance”.

However the persistent erosions of Truth made their hypocrisy more and more obvious, which made them more desperate, until now the resistance definitely has no capital “R”. No payments of blackmail to the picture-taking owners of Pleasure Islands can hide the whoring, and killing the whore-masters only makes the evil greater.

I have worked many jobs in my time that made me reek, although the stink was superficial, and deep down I was a hard-working fellow. For example, next time you open a can of sardines, pause to think how the people who worked at the cannery smelled. There was no deodorant that could hide the smell of fish, once it got into the fabric of your jeans or soaked into your hair. Ten washings wouldn’t work; you had to get new jeans or a haircut, to stop people giving you disapproving looks when you stepped into a shop for a slice of pizza.

Therefore I thought things might be different when I worked in a herbs and spices warehouse where my job included filling tiny quarter-ounce bottles with essential oils. Especially popular was the oil of roses, and when I stepped into the shop to grab a slice of pizza after filling several hundred hundred small bottles with rose oil I did not expect disapproval. What I heard was, “Peee-yoooo! You smell like a French whorehouse!”

Apparently people are not fooled by superficial scents. A man may associate perfume with a certain woman, but he hopefully looks deeper than her skin or her scent. When people look deeper they tend to see your hypocrisy, at which point a person can either be humble and confess their shortcoming, or become increasingly desperate in their attempts to preserve their privileged position among the so-called “elite”, though they are increasingly called “snakes of the Swamp.”

We are increasingly seeing “the resistance” resorting to desperate measures. It is not merely Harvey Weinstein and Jeffry Epstein whose sleaze is being exposed. The bribes handed out to Hunter Biden by Ukraine and China, and the falsified warrants sought by the FBI, and the twisted science employed to frighten people with Global Warming or the Corona Virus, are exposed, and the sycophants in the Mainstream Media only make the obvious more obvious when they attempt to hide the obvious, while also exposing themselves as complicit in the shams. What began as a pebble is becoming an avalanche.

More and more people are becoming fed up. Every action has a reaction, and “the resistance” is creating “The Pushback”.

The media does not want to show it, but here is an example:

And here is another:

The “Push-back” is not reported, and apparently there are efforts to censor it from Facebook, Youtube and Twitter, but such efforts are merely the Swamp growing increasingly desperate. Hypocrisy is dependent on hiding the truth, whereas honesty admits our blunders and displays a willingness to “stand corrected”. In fact most religious discipline is not a matter of pretending one is perfect, but rather a matter of looking towards Perfection and being led towards that Truth, while confessing imperfection. To pretend one has no problems is a problem in and of itself.

To tear down statues because the past isn’t perfect is a way of hiding from imperfection. It is better to see the imperfection in our founding fathers, and to study how they strove towards perfection even while confessing they themselves were imperfect. In the words of Saint John, “If we say we have no sin, then the Truth is not in us.”

Those who fail to study history are doomed to repeat it. We must bravely face even that we wish forgotten.

(In actual fact the above photo wasn’t taken at the Democrat Convention in 1924; I Duckduckgoed “Klanbake”…..[I never use the word “Google” anymore, unless I have to.] It turns out there is quite a battle going on in the internet, with Republicans trying to to tar the Democrats as racists, and Democrats defensively pointing out Republicans were also members of the KKK. At both 1924 conventions motions were put forward to condemn the KKK, and neither party would vote to do so. In the Democrat convention “a platform plank favored by Smith supporters that would have condemned the Klan by name went down to defeat after a raucous debate that degenerated into fisticuffs”. Democracy in action is not always pretty.)

If you want the real scent of roses you have to bear the thorns.

DEFINITELY NOT “WOKE”

So much “virtue signalling” is currently going on that one simply has to become irreverent towards the New Puritans, and one good way to do that is to take a time machine back to 1997, and a hall where the exact same people who are so very “woke” today were laughing themselves to tears at the political-incorrectness of Alf Garnett.