People of the Twilight: The Masked World Between Being and Non-Being

They fear life.  In many ways, they hate it.  It hasn’t been kind to them.  Mother Nature may have burdened them with unattractive faces, or the luck of the draw may have given them a single parent who bothered about their childhood needs a quarter of the time—and never on weekends.  Perhaps their temperament (who knows if such things are bestowed more by nature or nurture?) has prevented a comfortable degree of socialization.  They are oddball, alone, and without a cast of supporting characters or even a stock of pleasant memories to offer them refuge.

They’re likely to thrust a tremendous investment of affection upon a dog or a cat—the childhood- or bosom-friend they never had whose big eyes can always be interpreted as limitlessly loving and whose muteness as perfect agreement.  They tend to eat too much.  Whatever care they give to personal appearance often borders on self-mutilation, either to channel the loathing they feel for an unprepossessing body or, perhaps, to ground the argument that they could make a swan of the ugly duckling if they gave a damn.

Males, more often than females, seek escape in the virtual reality of video games.  The feminine taste leans more toward romantic fantasies available ad infinitum in ebook form.  Both sexes exploit social media in search of escape or relief—the male more likely to slash and burn with a lexicon learned from public toilets, pretending to be the buccaneer iconoclast he hasn’t the intellectual depth or moral courage to play in real life; the female more often curling up warmly behind an avatar and a trove of cliches that render her easily “friendable”.

The female is much more likely to have an above-average exposure to formal education.  One may even say that she is magnetically drawn to certain of the “social studies” in college because of the patented rationalizations they offer for her misery—the absolution of any personal guilt and the accusations lavished upon others.  Graduate-degree mills in several fields are indeed nothing short of a “crutch industry”, thanks to an abundance of her kind in the post-grad population.

The male of this species that dwells in twilight, while not so successful academically (and, for that matter, distinguished by his unsuccess in all endeavors), isn’t stupid.  He has a measure of intellect that might have been tapped for more-ambitious-than-average projects if only a means of motivating him existed.  He has dedicated whatever talent he possesses, sadly, to sneering and snarling at the system that walls him in with evidence of his failure and inadequacy.  He might possibly construct a bomb some day, and it might possibly be of the small nuclear variety: he has the acumen necessary for something of the sort.  The question is… does he have the courage, the hellish courage (think of Milton’s Satan), needed actually to make other humans who’ve never done him wrong suffer far more than he ever has?  Probably not.  Mercifully, in most cases, no.

As a footnote, I should add that another kind of male exists: more sociable, much more “female”.  Oddball yet eloquent, alienated yet readily found in company, he plays at the edge of twilight and represents an unstable ally.  His companionable qualities make him risky: he may withdraw in a given crisis from endorsing outright anarchy.  While he may follow whatever crowd forms to overthrow everything, he’s also apt to follow that hard day’s work with an evening at the theater or the cabaret.  He’s not a bomb-thrower; and if you yourself are one, you shouldn’t assume that he has your back.

Whether courtesy of the Ivory Tower or simply through natural attraction, both “pure” sexes of Twilight People are idolaters of the future.  The future is not now.  In Baudelaire’s grand phrase, it’s anywhere out of this world.  The details of that better—that oh-so-very-best—future are yet to be hatched out.  Why bother?  At the moment, the present needs annihilating, for Future Perfection cannot come to dwell among us until a place for it to dwell is swept clean.  A mind even of average intelligence, to be sure, would grasp early in “the struggle” that the Golden Age isn’t going to show up during the lifetime of its footsoldiers.  The Twilight People “get” this.  They embrace it, indeed.  The indefinite delay—the perpetual postponement—is more attraction than obstacle to the true believer.  After all, the future’s real gift is its looming, its approach.  One may devote one’s life to preparing the glorious way with far more zeal than one might bring to actual day-to-day life in any well-defined utopia.

The zeal’s the thing.  Life is hateful, miserable, loathsome… but zeal for tomorrow makes today tolerable—and may tomorrow, always almost here, never complete its disillusioning arrival!

Two further characteristics will likely have struck you about the People of Twilight as I wrote the previous couple of paragraphs: 1) they have no faith in any metaphysical reality, and 2) their zeal for “unreal reality” has been nudged into the gap of that missing faith.  It couldn’t be otherwise; for, as much as they shun daylight, they also fear the night.  They hate life, but they hate death, too.  They flee life, but can’t flee it too far—not beyond its edge; for in that chasm lurks the unthinkable, infinite and permanent oblivion.  Precisely because they’ve made nothing of life, they must cling to it.  It’s all they’ve got.  Maybe it will yet yield something pleasant, something worthwhile.  Probably not.  But at least there’s that chance in a million.  Beyond the pale, in the outer darkness… no chance of anything.  Ever.

Perhaps the greatest advantage of faith is its taking the terror out of death… and perhaps an advantage very nearly as great is its bestowing purpose on life.  Imagine the misery of having neither purpose nor a means of escape from purposelessness.  A difficult spot to find oneself in.  Twilight is the only alternative: a world that isn’t here-and-now but also isn’t the hereafter: a kind of ongoing suspension, a transport in cryogenic immobility from the hated world to the same world no longer hateful.  And you get there by dreaming of a world no longer hateful… on whose behalf you ignore, or actively incinerate, all in the world around you.

I’ve come now to masks.  I might have come to firebombing and Antifa, or to broadcasting made-up dramas in full awareness of their fantasy, or to translating every single human event into the plots and assaults of racists as ingeniously as John Donne transformed a flea into sexual intercourse.  But masks will do.  In fact, they are surely the supreme trope, the most expressive creation, of the People of Twilight.  The masked face breathes, but does not partake of your filthy public air.  That face may speak to you, but “socially distanced” and muffled by a sheet.  Its features are not those of a “death mask”, for the eyes remain open; but without contributing gestures from mouth or nostrils, the intent behind the eyes remains always equivocal.  Are they warm and simpatico… or are they hot and fuming?

The new face is half in the dying daylight and half in the clammy fingers of night.  It’s neither fish nor fowl.  Hands off!  You don’t know it—you have no hermeneutic key to its thoughts.  Wherever you may suppose it to be… it’s elsewhere.  Welcome to the brotherhood of the stay-away-from-me’s.

The rationale undergirding (or hiding behind) the mask is similarly evasive.  We are told that the mask keeps deadly microbes from exiting the wearer, and also that it protects the wearer from deadly microbes.  (Yet mask-cultists never appear to register anxiety about infecting others: their concern is always for their own vulnerability.)  The mask’s weave blocks minute viral particles… but it does not compromise the wearer’s lungs by trapping larger contaminants and bacteria before the mouth for hundreds of inhalation cycles.  The mask is security against a virus traveling everywhere—everywhere—in aerosol form… yet it’s unnecessary outdoors, and its challenge is largely met by social distancing.  Your mask will protect you from me… yet I must wear one, too, because yours may not protect you.  COVID virons are so tiny that two mask-walls scarcely suffice to impede their attack… yet the visible gaps around the chin and the nose bridge are too small to open a passage.  Bare hands are constantly in contact with noxious “naked air”… yet those same hands are forever readjusting the mask, with a thumb or fingertip slipping past the gate every time.  Or if the wearer always “purels” and/or removes gloves before every adjustment… well, didn’t a bare hand grasp the second glove to come off, or didn’t a bare hand hit the pump of the Purel bottle?  And there’s always that potentially lethal three or four feet between the bottle and the face, filled by ever-untrustworthy free air.

Neither dead nor alive.  The People of Twilight are among us, and they are legion: just how many, we’ll soon find out.  But a house divided against itself cannot stand, and a people half of whom flee the daylight cannot grow and prosper.  What the deranged cultists of the fleeing half refuse to understand is that twilight, by definition, is unstable, ephemeral: a flight into night.  To reject life is to run into death’s arms.  To deny God is to affirm fearful oblivion.  There’s no third option.

FREE EBOOK: From Sunday (October 11) to Thursday (October 15), this text that I created for a college class is will be available as a Kindle download at no cost whatever. Mainstream academic publishers, of course, didn’t want to take a chance on my thesis: that medieval scribes had faintly Christianized the ancient Irish legend of Cu Chulainn’s journey to the Other World and the Welsh Owein’s transits through the same interface. They bristled even more when I added Marie de France’s Eliduc to the list, these days treated only as an indictment of toxic masculinity. Yet the redemptive allegory, at least in the last two, is unmistakable… except to the unredeemed.

To the “Healers” Among Us: I Know Ye Not

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My second full year of attempting to farm has begun.  One infant walnut tree has been permanently laid to rest, and the fate of a cherry tree hangs in doubt: both were savaged by deer last year whose watery eyes and flickering tails I soon ceased to find “cute”.  Plant assassins: guts on hooves with razoring teeth and very small brains at one end.  They gnawed right through the netting I had oh-so-confidently draped around my nurslings.  This year, wire fences reinforced with stakes will greet their nipping incisors.  A particularly small garden shark managed somehow to duck under one fence last week.  My wife spotted her just in time, and I scared her off (the deer, not my wife).  Then I ran a strand of barbed wire around the exposed lower region.  Shees… you raise the barrier to keep them from jumping over, and then one sneaks under through a space that you would have thought too skimpy for a slithering hound dog.  It never ends.  As Emilio Romero wrote of creeping communism half a century ago, la paz empieza nunca.

The peanut patch was another casualty from last summer.  I managed to reap perhaps a pound of nuts when all was said and done.  Grasshoppers were the prime suspect, but to this day I’m not sure of that diagnosis.  Just when the plants appeared to be taking off, their leaves would be gnawed away to the stalk the next morning.  This happened several times—and deer, much as I love to pin every crime on them, just didn’t check out as the culprits.  Now, at least, we’ve coaxed in families of bluebirds which—I hope—will feed hungrily on insects during the summer.  As long as the cardinals don’t chase them off… for, with mating season at full throttle, we’ve observed an emerging problem.  The bull redbirds are attacking everything else wearing feathers in their bid to attract females.  Toxic masculinity at its very worst.

Potatoes didn’t grow in the clay that the builders compacted around our house: trying to loosen that mass into productivity was wasted time.  On the other hand, the extensive raised garden I constructed offered the plushest possible bed for vegetables… but I foolishly magnified its walls with white Styrofoam; and this, once the summer sun started beating down in earnest, fried everything within its borders.

If you live, you learn.  Not everything was a disaster.  My pecan trees are doing well; and the two oldest almonds, despite having been ravaged themselves by the dear deer, came back so strong that I’ve planted several more.  Apple trees, pear trees, peaches, apricots, persimmons, pomegranates… the new cherry trees have already flowered… I have almost fifty plants in the ground.  We’ll see if they’re bearing in five years—always assuming that I’m here to see.

For you get no guarantees in life; and once you reach three score years, you’re guaranteed an exit of one sort or another in the not-too-distant future.  I’ll probably survive my little crisis with an enlarged prostate.  The medical/pharmaceutical industry has lavished enough catheters upon me that I could lay a tiny plastic tunnel to Saskatchewan; and anyway, I have at last found some homeopathic remedies that have put my trouble somewhat into remission.  Speaking of industries… homeopathy and ruthless exploitation of the vulnerable are of two houses, you should know. To be sure, the snake-oil salesmen quickly nose out your complaint thanks to shared information in our wired society. My mailbox—my literal, in-the-ground mailbox—has been steadily bombarded with news of “the breakthrough formula that really works”.  Entire booklets appear featuring a leering charlatan in white coat and stethoscope on one page and a couple making steamy love on the next.  I want to reach in, grab White Coat by the lapels, smack him a few times, and explain, “I’m not contemplating a career as a porn star, moron—I can’t pee!”

It’s all the exploitation around the edges that gets me down. I love my 25 acres.  Even, in a way, I love the damn deer.  They at least don’t represent themselves as anything other than what they are.  And maybe society’s varied collection of scalawags and profiteers… maybe there’s a kind of Darwinian defense to be made for them, too.  I spend a lot of time hacking away wild blackberry and polk sallet, nuisances unfit for the table that run off all the other vegetation; but such is nature, with ravenous parasites always ready to gnaw a pound of flesh from prosperity.  Our human analogues are no less busy.  My indignation concentrates upon those whose calling is supposed to be of a higher sort.  The Teacher says, “From those to whom much is given, much is expected.”  Precisely.  Where is the “high” in “higher” these days?

Yes, I’ve avoided doctors most of my life.  I did so partly because I don’t believe we should run to someone for relief from every little pain—and partly, too, because my father’s and grandfather’s lives were needlessly shortened in the hands of the medical establishment (and my father-in-law’s made much worse during its short remnant). My own problem would have been diagnosed and treated sooner if I had been less pig-headed, true enough. But then, what treatment have I actually received?  Of the three medications I’ve been prescribed, two made me instantly, severely ill.  The third (a muscle relaxant) I never had filled.  I chose meditative techniques in its place; and meditation, like homeopathy is rarely a permanent solution—but at least, like hydroxychloroquine, it does no harm.  (Wasn’t there someone named Hippocrates, once upon a time?)

Even my miraculous catheters, for which I’m most genuinely grateful, came with conflicting instructions when I received any instruction at all.  “Wash carefully after every use, and don’t reuse for more than a week… no, not that: Who told you that? Always throw away after one use!  Oh, and the type of catheter that’s eviscerating you?  Keep the blue line pointed upward.  No, there are no directions included… but someone was supposed to tell you.”

They send you off to try out poisons manufactured in China the way a Vegas hooker tells her drunken high-roller to put his stack on Seven. They load you with expensive but ill-explained gear and gizmos that your insurance (not to worry) will pay for. And then….

And then they push the appointment you’ve awaited for two months another two months down the road for your own good, because CV-19 targets senior citizens.  I’ve cleared and planted three acres of orchard with nothing I couldn’t hold in my two hands… and they’re telling me that the one physical complaint ever to slow me down has to stay with me like a ball and chain due to the possibility of a week’s sniffles and fever—a virus that they, the White Coat Fraternity, have decided to elevate to bubonic-plague gravity with virtually no objective data.

My brother, recently a stroke victim, now has to put his rehab in low gear; a friend’s pre-adolescent son suffering from strange fainting spells now has to wear some kind of monitor at home because “professionals” dare not give him a precious hospital bed.  Meanwhile, half of the medical profession—the really “expert” half—refuses to endorse hydroxychloroquine because other white coats haven’t spent enough years observing its possible side-effects (the kind of effects that don’t seem to concern them greatly, however, in the case of Flomax).  And meanwhile—or during the same while—their Peerless Leader stalls for time as his puppeteer Bill Gates rushes after an “antidote” we’ll all be required to take.

Notice that I haven’t mentioned a single politician.  Anyone who places trust in that tribe deserves to be scalped in his sleep.  But the medical community… et tu, Brute?

The evening news treats us regularly (I’ve seen two renditions of this script in the past week) to scenes of “COVID survivors” being wheelchaired to the hospital exit through a gauntlet of applauding doctors and nurses, all dutifully masked; and I ask myself, “Why are they clapping as they stand elbow to elbow?  Why are they sending micro-deposits from their hands into the eyes and hair, quite possibly, of their neighbors?  How can people with any medical training whatever engage in such needlessly, stupidly risky behavior?  Or do they know that the whole thing’s a hoax?  Is it all being staged, and the masks are just costumes?  Then again, are they genuine but massively incompetent?  What third alternative could there be?”

Those questions… I have a lot of them.  Far too many—and I can’t answer a single one.  I don’t claim the right to medical attention.  Our ancestors didn’t enjoy such a right.  On the contrary, death in the body is our common inheritance, our common destiny; and though, as I say, I shall probably not die of an enlarged prostate’s complications, the experience strikes me as a dress rehearsal for the big show (one where there will be no TV cameras).  A stroke, maybe, as I’m grubbing out another post hole and cussing at deer… maybe it will knock me clean dead, and not simply nudge me as it did my brother.  I hope so.  I’d like a quick exit.  Me with my boots on, and confused cardinals cocking their heads.

I’m okay with that.  Just please don’t tell me that you’re helping me—that when you prescribe noxious garbage, when you issue contradictory directions, when you bill the insurance company at every turn, when you schedule extra tests and then move them all back a few months… don’t tell me you’re doing all this for my own good!  You’re not.  I don’t believe you.  I don’t trust you.  I’ll show up for my appointments, whenever they finally fall and if I happen to remain among the living… but it won’t be because I’ve trusted you.  It’ll be because I have no other card to draw—because I have only one roll of the dice left.

That’s exactly the feeling I get nowadays at election time. Could it be, Dr. Fauci—Mr. Gates—because the line even between politics and medicine has dissolved?

I love my 25 acres.  I wish I could be buried here, but they don’t allow that… and I don’t suppose I’ll really care, at any rate.  I’m ready to step through the door.  I only wish I could do so in peace, without the toxic miasma of half-truths and undisclosed interests and noisome mock-altruism that hangs heavily over every aspect of our public life these days.  All you “professionals” and “experts” out there… why don’t you just peddle your porn, and stop with the line about how good it is for us?

The Comforts of Midnight: Peace in a Dying Republic

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In New Jersey, police go door to door searching for New Yorkers who may have fled their state’s quarantine.  In Vermont, grocery chains are forbidden to sell gardening items.  In Walmart’s across the nation, customers are being held to a trickle at points of entry.

In Fort Worth, a judge suspends private property rights.  In Laredo, citizens are fined up to $1,000 for not wearing masks.  His Excellency Dr. Fauci proclaims on national media that everybody everywhere should be required to wear a surgical mask.

In Florida, a minister is arrested for holding worship service; in the Greensboro area, four ministers are cuffed for violating a stay-at-home order as they peacefully protest outside an open-for-business abortion clinic.  In New York City, the mayor exhorts citizens to report any active worship service to law enforcement (though New Yorkers continue to patronize their less-than-sanitary—but fully operative—subway system).

Stories of employees being stopped and questioned by cops as they drive to their “essential” jobs are everywhere.  Meanwhile, criminals are quickly processed back into “healthy” communities from the “unwholesome” quarantine of their jail cells without a second look from authorities—while gun stores are shut down because their service, though now more imperative than ever, is deemed “non-essential” by many a local tinpot dictator.

I really need some sort of meditative excursion if I am to hold myself together.  Perhaps this column’s exercise Is my version of the saccharine “My Favorite Things” ditty from The Sound of Music.  Ugh, how I hated those musicals whose records my sister would play daily back in the days of… of the Vietnam War on TV, and of us young teenagers wondering if we would live to see twenty.  But there you go: CoronaVirus isn’t the first television-borne panic in our history.  Furthermore, the Vietnam terror (unlike this one) was all too real for thirteen-year-olds around the nation.  Body bags were traveling at much more than flu-season rate, and they were filled with the remains of many who were scarcely old enough to shave.

Hence one “favorite thing” that a father might remember in these days of a collapsing republic is that his boys, at least, are relatively safe.  My son hasn’t grown up with the draft and slaughter in a faraway rice paddy looming over his horizon.  Thank God for that.

There’s no doubt that the United States of America is rotting, rotting even as it clings to life.  The President is readying the way for yet a fourth “relief” bill (as opposed to letting us get back to our lives, and to the inevitable deaths associated with normal living).  As a republic, we’re now moribund for sure—worse than if CV-19 were in fact bubonic plague.  Our economy is DOA.  Even without the legal alien work force that Mr. Trump wants to multiply (as citizen unemployment skyrockets)—a diaspora that sends billions of American dollars “home” every year—we have no chance of ever paying off our debt.

Our constitutional freedoms are all lying in the morgue.  This very column may be banned from the Internet as “uncooperative”: news about the round-the-clock labors of Wuhan’s crematoria has certainly been nixed.  We dare not even mention that COVID-19 began in China, let alone that the bats in which it incubated were not, in fact, sold in Wuhan’s “wet markets”.  Our media simply parrot the Chinese Communist Party’s propaganda like feather-brained pets, while also churning out hysteria-on-steroids “exclusives” and streaming contextless figures across the screen.  This past week, for instance, a local broadcast offered a nurse’s self-interview before her iPhone, the gist of which was that she preferred staying home with her kids to risking the most lethal infection she’d ever seen in her young career.  Terrifying, indeed… and also fully within the bounds of subjectified, disoriented panic-baiting.  A free republic without objective sources of information cannot stand.

Yes, but… but moonlight sometimes filters through the clouds even at midnight.  At least on our present course, the Chinese won’t be releasing a truly deadly virus on us—maybe another of the 1,500 species of CoronaVirus reported (or not reported) to exist within their treaty-violating biochemical labs: one whose mortality rate is 90 percent rather than something like .067 (assuming with the ever-speculative Dr. Fauci that more than 200 thousand of us die by September).  Given our present panic, the Chinese have seen all they needed to see.  Xi Jinping won’t be allowing Little Rocket Man to microwave our power grid with an EMP.  Our future is assured as a Chinese colony—a consumer of Chinese goods and supplier of sensitive technology to China’s colonization of the solar system and beyond.  (As of this moment, our spendthrift Congress as done nothing to wrest the manufacture of penicillin and other vital drugs from the PRC.)  Just as we’ve surrendered all our constitutional rights to be safe from a death that almost certainly won’t come from CV-19 (and certainly will come from some direction, one day or another), so the same spirit of surrender ensures that the Xi’s China won’t waste any nukes on us.  Thanks for that, Lady Moon.

Or why should we have to fear a showdown with Russia now, whose state-of-the-art nuclear arsenal could strategically vaporize our nerve centers while we’re still trying to launch missiles that haven’t been tested in forty years?  The Russians, like the Chinese, have to be entirely cool with what they’re witnessing on our panicked shores.  Solzhenitsyn’s generation was stacked into boxcars like sardines, shipped to Siberia with only compressed bodies for heat, debarked in snow drifts, and marched barefoot to tent cities where they were served a piece of frozen fish once a day.  These Americans… you tell them they could die of a cold, and they dismantle their free society before your eyes.  Why launch a war against them?  What’s to fight?

We have no real enemies any longer.  We have bundled ourselves into a gift package and stuck a bow on it: our enemies may simply wait for delivery.  Peace, brother.

I am actually thankful for Putin, in a way, because I know that he sees Russia’s future as it appears in Xi’s tea leaves.  I know he must understand that the Chinese dragon is slavering to devour Manchuria… and then on from there.  Putin will need all the allies he can get.  Obviously, the West Coast of our mighty nation is poised to become Xi’s whore, the latest addition to his harem.  The drug cartels that have already taken over Mexico are conduits for Chinese poisons throughout the Southwest.  I can well imagine them doing double duty as a sort of freelancing beachhead against emasculated border-security forces.  Haven’t they already won D-Day?  Didn’t Mr. Obama, in unguarded moments, speak longingly and lovingly of an armed national police force—and did his “Justice Department” not arm MS-13 and the Zetas?  All that remains is for the Chinese paymasters of today’s anarchic “resistance” to rumble in and mop up, at least among the Pacific states.

But the South?  But Middle America?  As we fragment into virtually impotent pieces, perhaps some of us will be wooed by Vlad.  I feel sure of it: he’s already making nice to Israel—and we Southerners trust Israel more than we do Washington.   I’m confident that we would choose Russian bestialization over Chinese insectification.  I devoutly hope we would.  I’d rather deal with Denisovan Man than with the Fire Ants.  Putin at least makes favorable noises in the direction of Christianity (unlike, say, the mayors of New York and academic ant colonies like Athens, Georgia).  Aleksandr Dugin has advised him that human beings are incapable of ruling themselves… and, well, what did the history of the late, great United States do to disprove that theory?

Yet if Christianity is true—and I would sooner die in the illusion that it is so than live in the “reality” that it is not—then all of them, Xi and Putin and the Kim clan… the Trumps and the Obamas, the Pelosis and the Clintons and the McConnells and even His Excellency Dr. Fauci… all of them must come to naught in their worldly empire-building, their progressive vision of a wholly safe, wholly organized, wholly gilded future.  I made a video a few months back wherein I said that if a home invader hauled me out onto the lawn at midnight, had his lieutenant keep a gun to my head as he ransacked my house, and then gave the order to hit my off-switch as he packed up, my last sight of this world as I bled out might be the stars of Orion and his Dog.  Betelgeuse, Altair, Deneb… Sirius… they would be beautiful, as beautiful as ever they were on those evenings of my teenage years when I’d crouch behind a telescope and dream of the life before me (a life without Vietnam).  And now true life would yawn majestically before me, and the constellations would frame its gate.  Not only that… but from my new life, my real and eternal life, I would cast a quick glance back at the punk who’d just executed me and his master—and I would see the pitiable agony of their souls shriveling away to nothing, to trash blowing in the wind, as time opened out into its eternal present.

Thanks for that, Lord of All.

Somewhere between here and there, Xi Jinping may get a tiny taste of his just comeuppance while his paltry flesh yet draws this world’s foul, disease-laden air.  His own people, tired of being reduced to ants, may rise up and smother him in their machine-gunned bodies.  For the corpses of Solzhenitsyn’s comrades in torment, Putin has expressed compassion once or twice; but he and his confessor Dugin may find that such expressions are inadequate—that the corpses won’t stay buried.  The puppet-masters pulling the strings of Middle Earth’s Faucis and Comeys and Brennans and Barrs… the Soroses, the Gateses, the Davos crowd, the Club of Rome (and yes, they’re all plural, all legion and ever-renewing in Earth time)… will find no real peace: certainly not in the next world, but not really even in this one.  Indeed, all of them will turn forever on the racks where they have cleverly bound themselves: turn in torture for a time here and now, and then forever more on that “throne of God” which they fashioned for themselves.

In the meantime… in “mean time”, middle time… there’s no point in deploring my fellow citizens’ cowardice, incuriosity, subjection, and infantilism.  We are merely what we are, if we refuse to become what we might have been in our Creator.  One fights awhile among comrades who don’t care against a foe who won’t come into the open… and then one lies down, bleeds out, and takes the gate through Orion.

Thanks for that.  Midnight is beautiful.