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Beautiful Daze

Which 20th-century painting was the most popular, would you say? Warhol’s Campbell Soup, or maybe Rockwell’s Rosie the Riveter?

The answer is neither – it is “Daybreak”, by the American painter Maxfield Parrish . 

Antarctica in 1910

Sketches from Antarctica in 1910

Light dance at the firefly sanctuary in Nanacamilpa [continue reading…]


(ProTip: Click the photo to see the shoes.)

You find that the Biden barrel has no bottom unless it is this one.

Yes, now every hour at the Department of Energy is Drag Queen Story Hour.

The appointment of Sam Brinton, a very public “queer” activist, to the U.S. Department of Energy is merely the latest sign of decadence in the dying culture of the West. Brinton, a man of such exotic and public perversions that I cannot in good conscience describe them here, is a sign of the times. It is, of course, not his perversions that are problematic with regard to his basic competence as a public official. It is the fact that he is an exhibitionist who uses his twisted sexuality to bully others in the workplace with the specific intention of “educating” the public, as Rod Dreher documents with a notable lack of squeamishness (you have been warned).  — Decadence on display | WORLD

Top New Biden Staffer Defended Underage, Gay Prostitution Website Raided By Feds in Jaw-Dropping 2015 Article.

Brinton is also an active member of the Washington, D.C. chapter of a drag queen society known as the “Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence,” which lists him as the principal contact on its 2016 and 2018 tax forms. During the group’s “Lavender Mass 2021,” Brinton can be seen referring to Anthony Fauci, who was declared a “saint,” as “Daddy Fauci.”

In a separate interview, Brinton explains how he roleplays as a “pup” handler.

“I actually have trouble when we transition from pup play to having sex,” Brinton explained.

“Like, ‘No, I can’t have you whimper like that when we’re having sex,’ because I don’t want to mix that world. It’s interesting, because he doesn’t have to come out of pup mode to have me fuck him. I personally have to bring him out of pup perception for me. But then I’m still treating him as a submissive to me.”



. . . and brilliant.


“And I’m here for birthing people.”


04 July 2022
Amsterdam, Netherlands
Mind Dump

The serious people of the world increasingly recognize that the cabal of evil including Klaus Schwab and Bill Gates are the Hitlers and Stalins of this semi-modern world. Comparison to Hitler and Stalin in no way implies a ‘violation’ of Godwin’s Law.

If anything, Hitler and Stalin may end as minor historical figures compared to what is unfolding.

It’s time to stop taking the bait and talking about the bullshit Global Warming scam and information war, the sex changes, pronouns, masking, death-vaxxines, idiots taking a knee as Kult salute, the terrorists of Black Lives Matter, and drug-addlers of ANTIFA, who all do bidding for evil psychopaths such as Bill Gates and Klaus Schwab. All that is not the topic.

When you have arson…you hunt arsonists. If you spend your life fighting fires (policy in this case), you will lose never realizing you had to neutralize the arsonist or he would burn down the earth.

Stop fighting the policy.

Fight the people using these policies to commit global genocide through fake vaxxines, starvation, war, and disease. Those same people pus invaders across our borders.

Who warned you about potential famines continuously since January 2020? Most of my readers see it now, and a long time ago. The average citizen still seems mostly oblivious — like Do Do Birds. Honking around like baby seals while the Schwabs and Gates of the Kult club their heads.

Notice before January 2020, I never warned other than occasionally saying be a prepper or be prepared. But since January 2020 I have warned no less than 3,000 times about the coming famines.

The famines will come. The math is the math. More mouths than meals. And famine creates famine.

This growing resistance in Holland, Germany, and more, is late — and they are attacking the policy instead of the people who are intentionally doing this to commit genocide and forever control digital money, food supply, communications, and every breath we take they will be watching us.

Imagine Gates and Kult owning most food production. They can add any chemical they like to the cricket meatballs.

The things we are seeing now in the Netherlands are nothing compared to the wars and starvation of 2023-24. Nothing. Dutch inflation exploding while some people believe Turkish is already over 70%.

Countries are lining up to go Full Weimar.

This thing will collapse and go kinetic.

Farmers are protesting policy on nitrogen or some other bullshit. None of that matters. Don’t even waste time studying that. The details about soil and all that are decoys. Aim for the people doing this. Stop talking about Nitrogen and CO2. All irrelevant.

Greenhouse gasses? Carbon credits? I don’t want to hear about it. Irrelevant. Anyone who tries to enforce “carbon neutrality” is an enemy. Stop arguing. Neutralize them. Fire them. Don’t take their calls. Foil their every move.

Governments will float the idea of seizing farmland and opening to others. This is an old communist trick both Stalin and Mao used. Hitler did similar. If you kill Jews, you can take their stuff. If you agree that Dutch Farmers are bad, you can have their property. (Later the Kults kill these useful idiots and take all the wealth.)

I’ve been monitoring Dutch farmer radio comms this morning. They started assembling at — arguably — about 0300. Some became impatient and wanted to go forward before assembly was complete. And so if you are on the streets here you may see packets of farm vehicles spread all over.

The farmers, fishermen, and truckers, are our profound allies. But fighting the policy at this point… we are way beyond mere policy change. This is Global 1848.

The Kult of Davos is open, they want Revolution. “Build Back Better” is their battle cry. Now they are in the Destroy phase.

At this point, there is no way to stop a cascade of Revolutions. The question is — who will win?

This is not about policy. This is about meat. Not cows. Someone will win and clear the table. There will be no participation trophies. If the Authoritarians win, Losers will die in massive numbers, their pockets emptied, their children killed or enslaved. Authoritarian-psychopaths vanquish their enemies with finality.

Authoritarians are not invincible. They are highly vulnerable. The bones of bullies, dictators, and psychopaths litter the earth.

I’ve got to get into the field.


The Prophecy from 1964

Some time ago a crazy dream came to me
I dreamt I was walkin’ into World War Three
I went to the doctor the very next day
To see what kinda words he could say
He said it was a bad dream
I wouldn’t worry ’bout it none, though
They were my own dreams and they’re only in my head

I said, “Hold it, Doc, a World War passed through my brain”
He said, “Nurse, get your pad, this boy’s insane”
He grabbed my arm, I said, “Ouch!”
As I landed on the psychiatric couch
He said, “Tell me about it”

Well, the whole thing started at 3 o’clock fast
It was all over by quarter past
I was down in the sewer with some little lover
When I peeked out from a manhole cover
Wondering who turned the lights on

Well, I got up and walked around
And up and down the lonesome town
I stood a-wondering which way to go
I lit a cigarette on a parking meter and walked on down the road
It was a normal day [continue reading…]

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The Good Old Daze

Judges 21 25 In those days Israel had no king; everyone did as they saw fit.

For the Ladies: How to lead the counter-revolution by your daily dress. (I almost forgot to mention respecting your husband by being modest and beautiful for him!) | Barnhardt Finally, yes, white viscose gloves. Cheap ($15 per pair), and they can be washed frequently. I bought three pairs right away so I can always have a clean pair. I actually recommend viscose and not cotton for ease of care. Glove etiquette says a lady shakes hands WITH, but ALWAYS removes to eat or drink.

Yoshitoshi 芳年 : Rin Chu Kills Officer Riku 

[continue reading…]


A Change of Heart

“And I thought of all the bad luck,
And the struggles we went through
And how I lost me and you lost you.”

— Don Henley

There’s a lot of it being bandied about these days. Change, that is. Mostly in the realm of the Politics of life. Despite all the hand-wringing and introspection that goes on in this area, I’ve come to believe that the Politics of life are easy. It’s the Poetics of life that are tough.

Changing your politics by either softening or hardening or completely reversing your positions on issues is such a simple intellectual feat that almost anyone, even politicians and lawyers, can manage it. At bottom, it is mostly a matter of viewing or “re”-viewing your internal map of how the world should be, and taking up those positions or opinions or policies that you believe will lead the world from “what it is” to “what the world should be.”

Thoughtful and engaged citizens of the nation or of the world continually assemble and reassemble their political beliefs to resemble their visions of the world and its continual becoming. All of which implies, to a greater or lesser extent, some individual control over the creation of policies which determine — to some degree — political outcomes.

Politics is the great game of our globe. It is now and always has been the only blood sport played well by both warriors and wimps. This is as it should be since blood or treasure must often be spilled to obtain any one of many possible outcomes. In all this, change may be for the better or the worse, depending on where you stand, but change will come, have its way and send the butcher’s bill.

And the butcher’s bill will always be more than you imagined you would have to pay. In blood and in treasure, the stakes are fates.

All of that is hard and difficult and, more often than not, splits parties, factions, families and friends right down to the living bone. It is played in real time and with live ammunition. But none of it is mysterious. In the end, it involves only the process of politics and, while the rules may be at times obscure, they can still be described and codified.

Not so the changes in the darkest realm of our lives; that realm we know only dimly but tell ourselves, in our error, that we know well. This is the realm of the human heart; a place where change happens more slowly than wisdom accrues and it lurks below our conscious minds like a deep slab of Pleistocene salt into which we have drilled, down into the bedrock of our lives, our wells of love and our wells of hate.

We recognize and celebrate the abiding wells of love within ourselves. So much so that we invite others, be they strangers, friends, or lovers, to drink from them; to refresh themselves, and thus know us as the kind of human being that can love and love deeply; that can make the deeper vows of love in life and, despite setbacks, still cling to them and draw strength from them. To close down, to shutter, to backfill one of these wells we once opened in ourselves to another is still seen — even in this deluded age of no-fault for anything — seen as a large failure in, and a waste of, life. This is as it should be. Deep love is known, by all who have had it granted to them, as the rarest of all moments of grace to be had in this world. Nothing can buy it and nothing replaces it. One can only nurture or squander it.

We toast the couple who has made it to fifty years of marriage. We are, indeed, amazed these days when even half that measure is achieved. We admire the parents who have a challenged child and yet stick by and raise that child into all the happiness of which that child is capable. We honor all those who spend their lives in service to humanity and even, when that service passes all understanding, raise them up as Saints, holy or secular.

The water from our deepest wells of love runs clear and clean. It refreshes the soul. Like all the great waters of this life, it carries within it no taste at all other than that which is pure and which is true. Tasted once we carry within us forever a ceaseless thirst for more of it.

Then there are ( because we are only human and caught halfway up the stairs between beast and angel) the darker wells of which we do not speak, but which run just as deep and just as ceaseless within our hearts.

These are the wells of the black and bitter water that we drink from at that awful hour of 4 AM in the soul. It’s that hour when the bad phone calls arrive. It’s the hour when the arguments and the accusations twist in the soul when nothing is satisfied and sleep is a whisper and the dawn delays.

Nothing good ever transpires in an argument carried past 2 AM, and it grows almost lethal as it winds on until 4. It doesn’t matter whether or not the argument is with another or just with oneself, let it run that long into the night and you will know — cold and stained — the darkest secrets of the self. And you will drink them down as night after night and year after year they are drawn up from the heart’s core. And the water will be dank and false and carry an ever-increasing taint of poison into your soul. Tasted once, you will have a ceaseless thirst for more of it.

I’ve been drinking my dark bitter glass from my secret well of hate in the dark hours on and off for what is now going on twenty years. That’s a strange measure since it marks just about the same length of time that I loved the woman and was married to her.

But I’m no addict. I’m no alcoholic of hate. No, not me. [continue reading…]


The American Credo: An Address at Gettysburg

“Now we are engaged in a great civil war,
testing whether that nation, or any nation,
so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure.”

To be born an American, or to become an American, you need only know and understand four things that we have written down: 1. Our founding document, The Declaration of Independence. 2. Our agreement with ourselves and our government that specifies and protects the self-evident truths and freedoms of the Declaration, The Constitution. 3. Our national motto:  “In God we trust.” 4. Our credo, “The Gettysburg Address.”

A credo is a short and straightforward statement of beliefs or principles. A credo has no fixed length but lies somewhere between a motto and a manifesto. The most widely known traditional credo would be “The Apostles Creed.”

Although it is not often thought of as such, Lincoln’s brief oration at Gettysburg at noon on that long-ago November day in 1863 is, in all its elements, our national credo. Although shaped as prose fit to be cut, as it has been, into stone, The Gettysburg Address is also a lyrical poem as polished as a crystal prism. Through this prism, all that we had been as Americans up until that day passed away and was transformed into the multifaceted nation Americans have become today. The Address is still not finished with us, nor we with it.

The Address shows us first how we came into existence as “the last best hope of Earth.” It echoes the opening refrain of the Declaration’s notes of liberty and equality. It reminds us of our original goals of “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness;” goals to which our founding fathers pledged their “lives, fortunes, and sacred honor.” It implies that all generations of Americans must, if the nation is to endure, pledge the same.

Four score and seven years ago
our fathers brought forth on this continent
a new nation, conceived in liberty,
and dedicated to the proposition
that all men are created equal.

The poem then brings the credo into the present. Not just the present moment of November 19, 1863, but all the present moments that came after right up to this very day in 157 years later in July of 2020. In 1863 the argument between Americans had become so pitched that civil war between the contending factions had torn the nation asunder. We have come close to similar passes since then several times, but have — remembering “the better angels of our nature” — always turned aside and found a way to move forward together as a great nation of an even greater people. [continue reading…]


The Last of the Finest

Ten plus years ago on a bright warm 4th of July morning in Seattle’s Queen Anne neighborhood  I went to my local coffee purveyor on the corner to get my usual. As usual I got in line. In front of me was an American-Asian family with two little girls, a Lesbian couple I’d seen around, a young girl and boy who looked like they were just coming home from a long date’s night, a blond woman with her blond daughter, a Hispanic looking man with a toddler asleep in a stroller, and, of course, me, your average white guy.

As I stood there waiting for my coffee to be brewed I noticed a frail old man I hadn’t seen before sitting by the window looking at the people walking by outside. I’d put him somewhere in his late 80s with a face of keen features and arms that suggested an earlier strength but which now contained bones almost bird-like. He had a salt and pepper mustache carefully trimmed and calm eyes. He was wearing plain khaki trousers, and a beige short-sleeved shirt. On his head he wore one of those standard issue baseball caps that said “Navy.”

As I was leaving the coffee shop I stopped for a moment and said, “Excuse me, Sir, but were you in the Navy?”

“Thirty years,” he said, “starting in World War II. I handled amphibious landing boats in the Pacific. Kwajalein, Iwo Jima, Lyete Gulf, Okinawa. ”

“Thank you,” I said, shaking his hand. “I thank all of you.”

“You’re welcome. There’s not too many of us left. Getting down to less than three million I understand.”

“I hope you have many more Fourths,” I said.

“Me too. I like it here. You know, except for the time in the Navy I’ve lived up here on Queen Anne all my life. It’s better here today, better in the country today. Not the political stuff. I don’t have much to say about that. But in the way we all live together up here now. It’s more different than it was. More kinds of people now. And that’s better.”

“I agree,” I said saying good bye. “And thank you and your whole generation again for giving me everything I’ve had all my life.”

“Any time,” he said, looking past me at a family of five that was bicycling past the window in the warm morning sun. “People always say it’s an honor to meet me these days. But they’ve got it all backwards. It was an honor for me to be of service.”


Only By Fire is Fascism Finished

Year upon year in Earth’s darker forests,
Heaped at the foot of the trees,
Dry drifts of wood rot and leaf fall increase
Which sunlight shall never seize.

The vampire by sunlight or stake.
The wolfman by silver in bone.
The demon by bell, book, and pentagram.
The fascist by fire alone.

The ash that descends in the September skies
Where the leapers swam down the stones?
Best answered by bombs from mid-heaven at prayer
With that fire which hollows the bones.

The vampire by sunlight or stake.
The wolfman by silver in bone.
The demon by bell, book, and pentagram.
The fascist by fire alone.

If their god decrees war, God’s war shall prevail.
His lessons are seared in His stone.
No dreams shall defer, nor wishes erase,
The answers that burn in the bone.

The vampire by sunlight or stake.
The wolfman by silver in bone.
The demon by bell, book, and pentagram.
The fascist by fire alone.

Only by Fire is Fascism Finished.
This Sin is demanded that Your Line may Live.
Only through Fire is Freedom Reborn.
Each generation pulls the Sword from the Stone.


A Tale of Two Fourths

Mighty Christian of these two groups in Arizona to inform each other of where they can be found. On the other hand, tailor-made for a False Flag on the Fourth Fornication Fiesta brought to all by our puppet masters.


Something Wonderful: Graves Into Gardens

Even towards the end, as we dissolved into the petty bickering and idle entertainments that come with having far too much leisure and money, many among us were still striving to make it higher, finer, brighter, better, and more beautiful.

Even towards the end, the best of us declined to give up and pressed on. “Where to? What next?”

How Beautiful We Were


Joe Rogan’s Impression of Kamala Harris

And now for Kamala Harris’ impression of Kamala Harris:


Buzz Aldrin on Communion in Space:  “Houston, this is Eagle. This is the LM Pilot speaking. I would like to request a few moments of silence. I would like to invite each person listening in, wherever and whomever he may be, to contemplate for a moment the events of the past few hours and to give thanks in his own individual way.”

For me this meant taking communion. In the radio blackout I opened the little plastic packages which contained bread and wine.

I poured the wine into the chalice our church had given me. In the one-sixth gravity of the moon the wine curled slowly and gracefully up the side of the cup. It was interesting to think that the very first liquid ever poured on the moon, and the first food eaten there, were communion elements.

And so, just before I partook of the elements, I read the words which I had chosen to indicate our trust that as man probes into space we are in fact acting in Christ.

I sensed especially strongly my unity with our church back home, and with the Church everywhere.

I read: “I am the vine, you are the branches. Whoever remains in me, and I in him, will bear much fruit; for you can do nothing without me.” John 15:5 (TEV)