QOTD: “What happens when The Purge meets Red Dawn + Fallling Down in real life?”
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WHEN in the course of human Events, it becomes necessary….
Welcome to the New American Digest: 2001-2022
Intellectual disgrace
Stares from every human face,
And the seas of pity lie
Locked and frozen in each eye.
Follow, poet, follow right
To the bottom of the night,
With your unconstraining voice
Still persuade us to rejoice.
With the farming of a verse
Make a vineyard of the curse,
Sing of human unsuccess
In a rapture of distress.
In the deserts of the heart
Let the healing fountains start,
In the prison of his days
Teach the free man how to praise.
– – WH Auden
Sometimes it seems I had a dream, and, as a dreamer woke immersed in mineral baths closed within a cool, dark chamber fed by streams flowing in from the center of nowhere.
Hanging from the granite ceiling a kerosene lantern cast shards of light through the pale steam rising from the surface of the pools.
Ripples radiated outwards from the edges of my body and tapping faintly on the rock revealed the edges of the chamber.
Outside I could hear the wind slide across the spine of the mountains, speaking in a language that I remembered but could no longer understand.
Steam filled my nostrils and heat penetrated my bones until, after a time, I had no body, only a sense of silence and distance and calm.
As if I had just woken from all water into dream.
— Tassajara Zen Mountain Center, 1973
FSA/8d22000/8d224008d22491a.tif
The steel mill sky is alive.
The fire breaks white and zigzag
shot on a gun-metal gloaming.
Man is a long time coming.
Man will yet win.
Brother may yet line up with brother:
This old anvil laughs at many broken hammers.
There are men who can’t be bought.
The fireborn are at home in fire.
The stars make no noise,
You can’t hinder the wind from blowing.
Time is a great teacher.
Who can live without hope?
In the darkness with a great bundle of grief
the people march.
In the night, and overhead a shovel of stars for keeps, the people
march:
“Where to? what next?”
— Carl Sandberg
Down valley a smoke haze
Three days heat, after five days rain
Pitch glows on the fir-cones
Across rocks and meadows
Swarms of new flies.
I cannot remember things I once read
A few friends, but they are in cities.
Drinking cold snow-water from a tin cup
Looking down for miles
Through high still air.
BY GARY SNYDER
Starry-eyed an’ laughing as I recall when we were caught
Trapped by no track of hours for they hanged suspended
As we listened one last time an’ we watched with one last look
Spellbound an’ swallowed ’til the tolling ended
Tolling for the aching ones whose wounds cannot be nursed
For the countless confused, accused, misused, strung-out ones an’ worse
An’ for every hung-up person in the whole wide universe
An’ we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing
Van der Leun: The Normblog Bio of Your Host
That is no country for old men. The young
In one another’s arms, birds in the trees
—Those dying generations—at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.
An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.
O sages standing in God’s holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.
Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.
– – W. B. Yeats, 1865 – 1939
Stone-cutters fighting time with marble, you foredefeated
Challengers of oblivion
Eat cynical earnings, knowing rock splits, records fall down,
The square-limbed Roman letters
Scale in the thaws, wear in the rain. The poet as well
Builds his monument mockingly;
For man will be blotted out, the blithe earth die, the brave sun
Die blind and blacken to the heart:
Yet stones have stood for a thousand years, and pained
thoughts found
The honey of peace in old poems.
— Robinson Jeffers
Sometimes it seems I had a dream, and, as a dreamer woke immersed in mineral baths closed within a cool, dark chamber fed by streams flowing in from the center of nowhere.
Hanging from the granite ceiling a kerosene lantern cast shards of light through the pale steam rising from the surface of the pools.
Ripples radiated outwards from the edges of my body and tapping faintly on the rock revealed the edges of the chamber.
Outside I could hear the wind slide across the spine of the mountains, speaking in a language that I remembered but could no longer understand.
Steam filled my nostrils and heat penetrated my bones until, after a time, I had no body, only a sense of silence and distance and calm.
As if I had just woken from all water into dream.
— Tassajara Zen Mountain Center, 1973
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“What happens when The Purge meets Red Dawn + Fallling Down in real life?”
People die.
“What happens when….”
People die.
**
Oh, puhlease!
people die all the time.
everybody dies sooner or later.
Well, not everybody all at the same time.
so far.
I useta get “the look” from timid soy men (“Should I be afraid?”) and karenic screamales (“Should I tell someone?”) when I carried openly.
No longer.
Maybe tee shirts with a pic of a guy on the street with his bleeding head kicked in, and the words, “Maybe beg with real tears and they won’t beat you to death.” Followed by a pic of a Smith and Wesson .357, and the words, “Or, point this at their face and squeeze.”
It’s 1984 and the bad guys arrived by parachute in Red Dawn. It’s 2020 and the bad guys arrived via the ballot box.
Something to consider:
While these street festivities go on unabated, be certain that other players on the world stage are watching very closely. China certainly has a slew of its own problems, but they would welcome the opportunity to assist in the demise of our nation, covertly, of course. They may even take this as a chance to play a strong hand on Taiwan. Figuring U.S. is preoccupied with internal matters and therefore unable to respond meaningfully. And would’t that be an indication to the world that this country is no longer made of the same metal as her forebears?
Also, Off Topic, but Western Rifle Shooters appears to be gone. Glitch? Didn’t pay the rent? Permanently banned? Any word?
You can always find Pete on GAB.
CA said on Gab that Wordpress nuked WRSA today for “violating terms of service”.
No doubt whatsoever WRSA’s been in their crosshairs for some time. Chickensh*ts.
CA and his readers ain’t going away,Wordpress cyber twats.
I heart WRSA but they are a ship of fools for having that inside wordpress’s perimeter. It’s what? $8 to $20 a month to have it on their own domain.
POST #1 WRSA REBOOT CYCLE
1955E 2JUN2020
That Would Be Called An “Indicator”
One of the early goals of all Red revolutions is the seizure or destruction of all information distribution outlets.
There is only one truth to the Communist: that day’s party line.
Woe unto those who do not adhere.
The second iteration of the Western Rifle Shooters Association (WRSA) blog, hosted by Wordpress, was nuked today.
While it is a loss, it was a deliberate sacrifice of a player to increase situational awareness.
The Reds are on the move.
The prize is the former United States of America.
The Red cares not about race, except to the extent it can and is used to befog the naive about the Party’s real goals.
WRSA was, first and always, a freedom advocacy site.
It was shot out of the saddle today by an arm of the Communist enemy propaganda machine.
Their attack did not kill WRSA.
Nor did it kill a single one of its followers.
The totalitarian bastards really can’t stop the signal.
Take heart, not just in this tiny skirmish but in the overall struggle to save the West, from WRSA’s final masthead:
“This is only the beginning of the reckoning. This is only the first sip, the first foretaste of a bitter cup which will be proffered to us year by year unless by a supreme recovery of moral health and martial vigour, we arise again and take our stand for freedom as in the olden time.”
― Winston Churchill
Forward.
https://gab.com/WRSA/posts/104277105566412775