Author: lostmungo2@gmail.com

There is a scene in my first book that describes the paranormal plasma that rises from countless graves, burial sites and killing fields of the early American frontier.  Instead of skeletons, the land pushes up the strife, grief, despair and fear of those interred.  It materializes above ground like glowing bluish plasma.  Wherever blood seeped into the land or bones lay smoldering within, it emerges each night.  Flowing down mountain ridges into dismal hollows, it forms countless tributaries that eventually swell over the banks of the Shenandoah river.  This spiritual flood courses above the river like a specter down towards Harpers Ferry and the mountain gap just beyond.  Instead of passing through with the newly combined waters of the Potomac, it eddies and flows into a subterranean cavern deep within the surrounding mountains.   Not sure why I got this haunting vision, or what it means but I am sure it is not articulated as well as I would like.   Basically, I want to say that all the people who exercised their inalienable rights to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness often met a violent end as they clashed with native people.  There was misery on both sides.  While you can bury bones, I wonder how you can bury the emotional trauma that surely resulted.   What happens to it, where does it go?

Then I came across a poem which does a pretty damn good job of describing the forgotten desperate plight of these historical figures.  It is linked below.

The Old Pioneer

Despite the obvious Marxist influence focusing on economics and other dimensions of power, I find this poem really interesting.   While critical of America, it clearly believes in America!  What America exactly I ask?  This is interesting because I assume that the author means that America has some intrinsic good qualities or potential stemming from the US Constitution.  After all, what else does America have uniquely that makes its potential great?  Why write a poem about the greatness of America?  If we owe nothing else to the founders of the United States of America, it is the potential for greatness inherit in our system of government.   Ironically, the author travelled to the Soviet Union during the height of Stalin’s purges but refused to denounce them.  So, I guess he didn’t think Russia or Communism had potential to be any better than that?

I really enjoy this poem for its ability to offer another perspective on the MAGA hat controversy.  It explains why some may find the slogan offensive.  Clearly, America was never all that great for some.  However, I believe it supports the underlying theme that America has a unique potential for greatness, you could even say it affirms America’s exceptionalism.  That the poet did achieve great success during his lifetime in the literary, political and economic fields despite capitalism and bigotry way beyond anything exemplified by the characters of his poems, I wonder if America was better than he realized.   Its not like he was one the millions murdered in Stalin’s purges.

 

Let America Be America Again
Langston Hughes, 1902 – 1967
Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.

(America never was America to me.)

Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed—
Let it be that great strong land of love
Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
That any man be crushed by one above.

(It never was America to me.)

O, let my land be a land where Liberty
Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,
But opportunity is real, and life is free,
Equality is in the air we breathe.

(There’s never been equality for me,
Nor freedom in this “homeland of the free.”)

Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark?
And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?

I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,
I am the Negro bearing slavery’s scars.
I am the red man driven from the land,
I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek—
And finding only the same old stupid plan
Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.

I am the young man, full of strength and hope,
Tangled in that ancient endless chain
Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!
Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!
Of work the men! Of take the pay!
Of owning everything for one’s own greed!

I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.
I am the worker sold to the machine.
I am the Negro, servant to you all.
I am the people, humble, hungry, mean—
Hungry yet today despite the dream.
Beaten yet today—O, Pioneers!
I am the man who never got ahead,
The poorest worker bartered through the years.

Yet I’m the one who dreamt our basic dream
In the Old World while still a serf of kings,
Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,
That even yet its mighty daring sings
In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned
That’s made America the land it has become.
O, I’m the man who sailed those early seas
In search of what I meant to be my home—
For I’m the one who left dark Ireland’s shore,
And Poland’s plain, and England’s grassy lea,
And torn from Black Africa’s strand I came
To build a “homeland of the free.”

The free?

Who said the free? Not me?
Surely not me? The millions on relief today?
The millions shot down when we strike?
The millions who have nothing for our pay?
For all the dreams we’ve dreamed
And all the songs we’ve sung
And all the hopes we’ve held
And all the flags we’ve hung,
The millions who have nothing for our pay—
Except the dream that’s almost dead today.

O, let America be America again—
The land that never has been yet—
And yet must be—the land where every man is free.
The land that’s mine—the poor man’s, Indian’s, Negro’s, ME—
Who made America,
Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,
Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,
Must bring back our mighty dream again.

Sure, call me any ugly name you choose—
The steel of freedom does not stain.
From those who live like leeches on the people’s lives,
We must take back our land again,
America!

O, yes,
I say it plain,
America never was America to me,
And yet I swear this oath—
America will be!

Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,
The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,
We, the people, must redeem
The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.
The mountains and the endless plain—
All, all the stretch of these great green states—
And make America again!

We had the wettest Fall on record.  The trails were mud.  I couldn’t wait for Winter for the ground to get hard.  I went out before a recent snow thinking the conditions should be perfect.  Instead, there was a thin film of slippery water on top of frozen ground.   It was the worst trail run of my life.  Hurt my hip sliding around.   We got a foot of snow since then.   Fortunately, it melted on bike paths so I switched to concrete.  I can see the woods are totally flooded.   The temperature rose and thawed out the surface but the water has no where to go since the lower ground is still frozen.  What a mess.  So, like a refrain from Game of Thrones I am just waiting for Winter to come.  I will take frozen ground and a few White Walkers just to run the trails again.  There is a new polar vortex supposedly coming this weekend.  Keeping my fingers crossed.

In the meantime, I am just dreaming of dry trails.

“Every record has been destroyed or falsified, every book rewritten, every picture repainted, every statue and street building renamed, every date has been altered.  And the process continues, day by day, minute by minute.  History has stopped.  Nothing exists except an endless present in which the Party is always right…”

George Orwell, 1984

Isn’t it interesting that a leftist who went to fight for the left wing government of Spain against Franco and the Nationalist can write such words?  What did he see there?  What did he experience?  A clue to understanding his book 1984 is to read his book “Homage to Catalonia.”  You can basically predict what he would write next.

In case you don’t know the answer let me tell you what he saw and experienced.  It was the monster hiding behind Marxism.  It was called Stalinism or totalitarianism.  Orwell realized that he was at greater risk of being killed by the Stalinist than the Nationalist forces he came to fight.  In fact, the naïve left wing, boutique Marxists were really fighting two fronts.  One in front of them and one behind.  The Stalinist proved to be the most deadly.  Thank goodness Orwell was successful in his desperate escape.  He tried to warn his fellow leftist to the danger of Communism ever since.  They didn’t listen. Some even shouted him down.

Why do I post about this?   Simple, nothing has changed.  If anything, it has gotten worse.  The manipulation of our minds through changes to the perception of reality has only intensified.  Bizarrely, this occurs without Joseph Stalin or any communist dictator in the Kremlin.  China is communist and maybe doing more than I realize.  What we have instead is something similar to myth of the Minotaur.  A monster roams the labyrinth below our society, feeding upon us, terrorizing our dreams.  Nobody can penetrate its lair.  It has been there for quite a while.   Decades, in fact.  Heroes bravely descend the labyrinth still today.  Often, they are destroyed.   Some are laying a string for us to follow.  We need to.

If you watched my video playlist series entitled “The Haunted Wood” you might have seen some clues that were placed in several shots.   These are my own string line for you.  One in particular is a book entitled “American Betrayal” by author Dianna West.  I did a post on her last month.  In my mind, she has done great work with her spool of string laying it deep in the labyrinth.   She accurately identifies the original sin that created the monster we live with today.   Going into the labyrinth without a string to guide you is extremely dangerous.  I know because I ventured there for almost a decade not knowing where I was.  Luckily, I found my way out.   Be warned!

My book trilogy will present this story in a fantastical story line.  It should be a great adventure.

 

 

This myth is truly amazing.  No wonder that the Greeks have little competition in mythology (My other favorite is Norse).  If you are like me, you are probably only familiar with the hero going into the labyrinth with his string to hunt the monster.  That was all I heard of this story.  However, I stumbled across it yesterday while researching something else. Reading the myth in full left me flabbergasted by its relevancy to current headlines.  This is why.  The myth tells of a King who asked for support from the chief deity in Greek mythology (Poseidon).  He pledged to sacrifice the best bull Poseidon could produce if the god gave him his support to achieve his political goals.  Everything happened according to plan except that the King, once crowned, spared the gifted bull from Poseidon because it was so impressive.  He sacrificed a lesser bull instead.  Poseidon knew the switcheroo was made and cursed the King’s wife to fall in love/lust with the gifted bull.  Things get a little weird with the wife hiding in a fake cow body waiting to be bred by the bull.  A creepy offspring occurs as a result of the union of bull and woman.  Bada bing, the Minotaur is produced.  He is a monster that nobody wants around for obvious reasons.  Hungry for human flesh, a lot of killing ensues.  What is to be done?  The answer was to design and excavate an elaborate labyrinth under the king’s palace from which the monster can’t escape.  Also, it is decided that the best of Greek youth will  be fed to the monster on an annual basis.  These poor sons and daughters of the kingdom are put into the labyrinth where escape is impossible.   People become tired of this arrangement and call for the monster to be destroyed.   Heroes try and fail.   The labyrinth is too confusing to navigate.  The monster knows it much better.   Yet, a new young hero takes the challenge and uses, interestingly enough, a spool of string to mark his path into the labyrinth.  He kills the beast and returns to the surface.

 

See any parallels to the Deep State?  I do.  Somewhere back in the history of our Republic, a politician (possibly a President) made a deal with a very powerful and vengeful force.   The deal to sacrifice our Republic was reneged upon and a monster creature was thus created by seducing at least parts of the population.  Subsequent politicians wanted to hide this monster in a labyrinth where nobody could see it.   The original treasonous action would be hidden away even though they did not make the agreement.  Lies built upon lies.  Soon all politicians became part of the conspiracy.     Citizens could only wonder what was going on beneath their Republic.  Clearly, something had gone wrong but the labyrinth of distorted history was too difficult to maneuver.  The monster thrives in this darkness of ignorance.  Whenever a hero descends into its depths, treasonous collaborators ensure it fails.   For me the original treasonous act to the Republic is the monster itself and the labyrinth is the cover up.  Fortunately, a spool of string is tracing its way into the dark and confusing tunnels of history.  Of course, the new hero is called a conspiracist.  The deeper they go in search of the monster, the more they are attacked above ground.   A hero never quits.  We have our conspiracy string.  Lets descend into the labyrinth and kill the beast.

 

Chapter 1
Vandalia Colony, January 4, 1773
Dropping season after season, year after year, accumulating, decaying, disintegrating but steadily cushioning the forest floor until decades turned to centuries, the pine needles could still not keep buried the tree roots that surfaced like skeletons reproached by the earth. Their gnarly bones glistened with the morning dew. Before anyone existed to mark the passage of time, the path distinctly coursed its way through the immortal evergreen forest. Bret’s hiking boots sank deep into this golden carpet of time. Out of breath, he stopped and bent over to lessen the weight of his pack, squirming his shoulders away from the biting straps that cut deep into his skin. Inhaling the smell of living things long since dead, he leaned hard on his hiking staff and lifted his torso. Swiveling his head from side to side, he listened more than he stared into the brooding darkness to either side.  Gazing upward, he traced a thin line blue line of sky through the towering trees that mirrored the path below.

“This place is frigging primordial” he said to nobody.

“We are not that far back.” An elderly man wheezed. “In the time of wolves and other predators that have long since passed. I would say we are in the year 1773.”

“Don’t piss your pants Bret, wolves aren’t gonna attack us three as long as we stay together.” A young female voice admonished.

Bret rolled his eyes and turned to watch the approach of his companions. Nervously, he glanced back into the shadows for any sign of fur or fangs.

 

For me, a meaningful life is a quest for truth.  As a kid, my mind wandered away from the classroom, out the window, and soared above the land around my elementary school in Stillwater, Oklahoma.  These day dreams often brought me to the edge of a creek, deep in the woods, where I would take off my shoes and feel the wet mud between my toes.  Inevitably, I would sense an invisible force watching me.   The woods would become quiet.  Instead of fearing the unseen presence, I would feel a sense of solidarity in its company.  I was always on a the verge of communicating before getting pulled back to the classroom.  Typically, the teacher had called on me and I was oblivious to the answer.  My parents actually thought I was autistic or something.  They took me to get evaluated.  No diagnosis ever explained my mental trances.  Needless to say, I was a terrible student.  In fact, my entire education experience was miserable.  I felt imprisoned for the first half of my life.  Fast forward into adulthood.   The transition has not been easy.  My problems persist at the office.  My mind wanders and wonders.   What is the purpose of life?  I bet if I could just think about it long enough, away from it all, the answer may come.  Mostly, I hike alone now.  Something calls me away.  The solitude seeks me out.  The lonelier a road or trail appears, the more familiar it feels.  I am still looking to understand what hidden presence resides there.  It still whispers to me.  There are secrets to share.   Whatever is there, it quells my soul.   In the quietness, words and sentences flow forth.  The experience is cathartic.   Once again, I feel the wet mud between my toes.

Contemplating answers to the world around me is like approaching an impenetrable forest.  There doesn’t appear a way through the green wall.   Stumbling inside, branches, bushes and deadfall scratch my skin, block the way, sending me sideways.  There is no animal like grace to my movements.  Stumbling my way between and over debris of the mind, I look askance and something catches my eye.  It is a break of in the pattern of the forest.  A faint trail materializes.   It is neglected, overgrown and un travelled.  I divert onto it.  Choosing a direction is easy; up the ridge.   Occasionally, a stone cairn is placed next to the path.  Someone has been here before.  The marker is welcome for its reassurance and direction.  What I find in my quest for the truth will likewise be stacked like so many cairns along the trail.   Instead of stones, I will leave words and images.    Case in point, my first book cover was chosen because it portrays a feeling of desperation, determination, weariness, fortitude, and, yes, providence.   The lone hiker in the wilderness.  The motion of his body is important.   Head up, eyes fixed forward, the hiker appears a bit fatigued but fiercely determined.  If you look closely, the hiker is weighed down by age.  It has been a long journey.  Yet, the body leans forward with swinging arms.  The hiker knows there is still much distance to travel.  There is no time to tarry.  If you didn’t know, the character in my book named Lost Mungo is on such a quest.  As you will find out, this character may die in person but never in spirit.  Someone else steps picks up his pack and trudges on.

It is me.  I am Lost Mungo.  I will hike for as long as I live in pursuit of my quest.  Look for my cairns.

Good news is that he wants to go backpacking with me during his ten day leave after Parris Island boot camp.   Look for some good video in mid March 2019.   I will be a proud parent of a US Marine.

John Brown’s earliest known portrait
1846-47

In 1837, for the first time, John Brown declared his hatred of slavery publicly. It happened after the murder of abolitionist editor Elijah P. Lovejoy. After being harassed for over ten years from Missouri to Illinois, Lovejoy was attacked once more by a large pro-slavery mob who threatened to destroy his printing press for the fourth time. In the ensuing gunfire, Lovejoy was killed with the shotgun. His death sent a shockwave among the abolitionists throughout the country. After a prayer meeting at the local church concluded, John Brown, who sat silently in the back, rose and lifted his right hand saying:

Here, before God, in the presence of these witnesses, from this time, I consecrate my life to the destruction of slavery! 4

No longer did John Brown act in secrecy. He started to think about more practical ways of helping the liberation of slaves. If the murder of Lovejoy pushed many abolitionists towards pacifism and non-resistance, Brown became more militant after that incident.

:Slavery, condition in which one human being was is owned by another.

 

Some mists are the result of nature while others are a result of false history.

Definition of mist (Entry 1 of 2)
1: water in the form of particles floating or falling in the atmosphere at or near the surface of the earth and approaching the form of rain
2: something that obscures understanding
mists of antiquity

 

I intend to lift the mist from what happened before, during and after John Brown’s raid on Harpers Ferry.

Words can be threatening.  Actions follow.  Free speech can the first causality of conflict.  Especially, if one side does not have morality on its side.  Events swirled out of control until they formed a twister of immense proportions.   History repeats itself unless we learn from it.  Unfortunately, I see no evidence that violent suppression of free speech, despite the 1st Amendment of the US Constitution protecting it, is a thing of the past.  On the contrary, suppression of free speech is very effective as a last ditch effort to shut down an argument that cannot be won with facts or moral persuasion.   John Brown’s defense of abolitionists and the destruction of slavery went past the point of no return as pro-slavery elements became more violent in their suppression of anti-slavery activities, especially in the form of shutting down free speech on the issue.   We are seeing the same thing happen today.  I offer the following examples of anti free speech violence in pre-civil war history and current events.

Below is a depiction of the Alton Riot on 7th November 1837: A pro-slavery mob attacking the offices of the Alton Observer, killing the anti-slavery editor and proprietor, Elijah Lovejoy. (Photo by Hulton Archive/Getty Images)

Douglass, Frederick. “A Plea for Free Speech in Boston,” 1860.

Frederick Douglas was a former slave who became a leader in the abolitionist movement in the North after escaping from slavery in 1838. His speech below, delivered shortly before the Civil War broke out, illustrate the danger that abolitionists were in, not from overbearing government, but from mob violence. The text is from the Transcendentalists website.

Boston is a great city – and Music Hall has a fame almost as extensive as that of Boston. Nowhere more than here have the principles of human freedom been expounded. But for the circumstances already mentioned, it would seem almost presumption for me to say anything here about those principles. And yet, even here, in Boston, the moral atmosphere is dark and heavy. The principles of human liberty, even I correctly apprehended, find but limited support in this hour a trial. The world moves slowly, and Boston is much like the world. We thought the principle of free speech was an accomplished fact. Here, if nowhere else, we thought the right of the people to assemble and to express their opinion was secure. Dr. Channing had defended the right, Mr. Garrison had practically asserted the right, and Theodore Parker had maintained it with steadiness and fidelity to the last.
But here we are to-day contending for what we thought we gained years ago. The mortifying and disgraceful fact stares us in the face, that though Faneuil Hall and Bunker Hill Monument stand, freedom of speech is struck down. No lengthy detail of facts is needed. They are already notorious; far more so than will be wished ten years hence.
The world knows that last Monday a meeting assembled to discuss the question: “How Shall Slavery Be Abolished?” The world also knows that that meeting was invaded, insulted, captured by a mob of gentlemen, and thereafter broken up and dispersed by the order of the mayor, who refused to protect it, though called upon to do so. If this had been a mere outbreak of passion and prejudice among the baser sort, maddened by rum and hounded on by some wily politician to serve some immediate purpose, – a mere exceptional affair, – it might be allowed to rest with what has already been said. But the leaders of the mob were gentlemen. They were men who pride themselves upon their respect for law and order.
These gentlemen brought their respect for the law with them and proclaimed it loudly while in the very act of breaking the law. Theirs was the law of slavery. The law of free speech and the law for the protection of public meetings they trampled under foot, while they greatly magnified the law of slavery.
The scene was an instructive one. Men seldom see such a blending of the gentleman with the rowdy, as was shown on that occasion. It proved that human nature is very much the same, whether in tarpaulin or broadcloth. Nevertheless, when gentlemen approach us in the character of lawless and abandoned loafers, – assuming for the moment their manners and tempers, – they have themselves to blame if they are estimated below their quality.
No right was deemed by the fathers of the Government more sacred than the right of speech. It was in their eyes, as in the eyes of all thoughtful men, the great moral renovator of society and government. Daniel Webster called it a homebred right, a fireside privilege. Liberty is meaningless where the right to utter one’s thoughts and opinions has ceased to exist. That, of all rights, is the dread of tyrants. It is the right which they first of all strike down. They know its power. Thrones, dominions, principalities, and powers, founded in injustice and wrong, are sure to tremble, if men are allowed to reason of righteousness, temperance, and of a judgment to come in their presence. Slavery cannot tolerate free speech. Five years of its exercise would banish the auction block and break every chain in the South. They will have none of it there, for they have the power. But shall it be so here?
Even here in Boston, and among the friends of freedom, we hear two voices: one denouncing the mob that broke up our meeting on Monday as a base and cowardly outrage; and another, deprecating and regretting the holding of such a meeting, by such men, at such a time. We are told that the meeting was ill-timed, and the parties to it unwise.
Why, what is the matter with us? Are we going to palliate and excuse a palpable and flagrant outrage on the right of speech, by implying that only a particular description of persons should exercise that right? Are we, at such a time, when a great principle has been struck down, to quench the moral indignation which the deed excites, by casting reflections upon those on whose persons the outrage has been committed? After all the arguments for liberty to which Boston has listened for more than a quarter of a century, has she yet to learn that the time to assert a right is the time when the right itself is called in question, and that the men of all others to assert it are the men to whom the right has been denied?
It would be no vindication of the right of speech to prove that certain gentlemen of great distinction, eminent for their learning and ability, are allowed to freely express their opinions on all subjects – including the subject of slavery. Such a vindication would need, itself, to be vindicated. It would add insult to injury. Not even an old-fashioned abolition meeting could vindicate that right in Boston just now. There can be no right of speech where any man, however lifted up, or however humble, however young, or however old, is overawed by force, and compelled to suppress his honest sentiments.
Equally clear is the right to hear. To suppress free speech is a double wrong. It violates the rights of the hearer as well as those of the speaker. It is just as criminal to rob a man of his right to speak and hear as it would be to rob him of his money. I have no doubt that Boston will vindicate this right. But in order to do so, there must be no concessions to the enemy. When a man is allowed to speak because he is rich and powerful, it aggravates the crime of denying the right to the poor and humble.
The principle must rest upon its own proper basis. And until the right is accorded to the humblest as freely as to the most exalted citizen, the government of Boston is but an empty name, and its freedom a mockery. A man’s right to speak does not depend upon where he was born or upon his color. The simple quality of manhood is the solid basis of the right – and there let it rest forever.
Declaration and Sentiments of the American Anti-Slavery Society, 1885

The American Anti-Slavery Society was responsible for the first direct mail campaign in U.S. history. In the same year that this declaration of principles and constitution of its organization was published, the AAS sent a shipment of abolitionist literature to a selection of southern leaders. The shipment was seized in Charleston, South Carolina by a group called the “Lynch Men,” and was burned before an angry mob of Southerners. In the wake of this event, southern states began passing laws requiring anti-slavery literature to be seized and destroyed.

Fast forward to current headlines:

Leftist thugs storm the stage at King’s College London in order to shut down an event put on by the college’s Libertarian group.

Violent mobs shut down free speech of their opposition.

http://www.facebookcensorship.com/

His slave revolt would have worked if supplied properly by the North.  Except, unlike North Viet Nam and China before that, I don’t think the US Government would have let abolitionist militarily support a slave insurgency in the South.   Most people don’t think much beyond John Brown’s failed raid on Harpers Ferry.  It failed and failed disastrously.  History is settled.   John Brown was probably insane and definitely dangerous.

What they don’t realize is that there are historical examples before and after his raid that prove it could have worked.

First, lets agree he actually thought of using the mountainous spine of the Appalachians as a critical passageway (North and South) for his military purpose.   It is already established fact that slaves used the mountains to escape North.  John Brown envisioned these same mountains as a passageway South for his liberating army of slaves.  As evidence, the following map was found in his diary.  He envisioned the Appalachians as a conduit to raid plantations.

 

Swamps were also indicated on his map for purposes of evasion and concealment.

Second, these same mountains were currently used as successful routes North as part of the Underground Railroad or at least the wilderness version of it.  If it worked in one direction, it could have worked in the other.

 

He probably got his idea for a successful insurrection of slaves using the mountains as cover from the island of Haiti.  The slaves there led a bloody revolt of their masters using the terrain.  Once in control, they turned into viscous Jacobins and slaughtered everybody who was white.  Bad idea.  No sympathy was gained for their cause by the international community as a result.  John Brown’s plan was never to destroy the plantation population but merely free slaves and send them North to Canada along what he called the “Great Black Way.”

Again, my point here is only to argue the merits of his raid on Harpers Ferry.   First. He would “liberate” the federal armory, escape with the weapons into the surrounding mountains, then lead an ever growing army of slaves South to free even more.  Kinda like Spartacus without the sandals and togas.  History tells us that the military tactic of using mountainous terrain worked in Haiti and then again in Viet Nam.

The communists effectively used  mountainous terrain and geographic boundaries to move deep into South Viet Nam.  While their inferior military technology could never sustain open combat with the United States superpower, it can’t be debated that the wilderness of Indochina benefited their cause.   Yes, we were limited to a great extent by politics to properly fight our war against the agression from the north vietnamese but I have to wonder which side of politics John Brown’s slave army would have fallen to.   Would he have received support from the Federal government or crushing suppression?  Or, maybe just ambivalence?   The later cost us victory against the communist invasion of South Viet Nam.  Would an ambivalent Federal response have allowed his slave revolt to succeed?   Was the only flaw in his plan a terrible miscalculation of federal support for the freedom of slaves?  While the civil war cost enormous death, destruction and suffering, it ultimately freed the slaves but only after he was hanged.

My book ponders the question why would the same US government execute John Brown for a cause it would within a year pursue relentlessly.

Just to close the loop, in case you were wondering, my fascination with the Appalachian Trail is directly linked to this history.  Yes, it is nice to hike and enjoy the solitude of the wilderness.  My mind, however, always populates this footpath with historical phantoms.  I would not call them ghosts but images etched into the landscape.  Not sure what I am seeing out there exactly.   It is certainly more than simple flora and fauna.  Whatever I see in the woods, it  plays like a grainy old film.   Scratched and flickering, the images look surreal.  You could say that the past haunts me.  Events happened but not the way history tells us.  Through my lens, I see how it might have been or actually was.  The facts don’t lie.  Yet, they persist even though not reported.   We must correct the record.  It is a thankless task but someone has to do it.  It is a thru hike I must do if I am ever to finish my trilogy.  I am cursed to complete it.  It will be a hike of the damned.

 

 

 

My book attempts to use fantasy story telling to reveal mind control tools of a totalitarian government and the dupes that fall for it.  George Washington lurks in the shadows of book 1.  In book 2, he steps into the light.   Whenever, I am hiking and camping in the Appalachian mountains, I gain new respect for him.  The more I study his life’s adventures, the more I wonder whether he was merely human.  Strange thought but increasingly something I cannot dismiss.  Suspend your preconceptions of a white patriarchal plantation farmer for a brief instant.  Transport yourself back to a time when travelling West of the Blueridge was a dangerous pursuit.  Go further still, past the wild frontier town of Winchester, Virginia.  Venture into the highlands of the Alleghany mountains where there is no sign of civilization just trackless wilderness.  Maybe you follow an Indian trail but more likely forge through dense forest with only your compass and stars to set your course.  Remember, you don’t even have a map.  They don’t exist for this uncharted area.  You hike all day, slogging through mud and thickets of brush.  It is cold, especially in narrow valleys and hollows where the sun only glimpses the land.  Even where the sun reaches mountain slopes, you freeze as it fades beyond the horizon.  Wild animals want to eat you.  Indians and Frenchman want to kill you.  Bandits want to rob you.  Now, remember that you are only 16 years of age.  Your job is to lead a survey team of rough men placing quill to parchment, drawing lines and creating America as you go.

The dark woods around my campsite are lonely and intimidating.  The comfort of my phone, the security of my jeep keeps me safe should I need help or escape.  Imagine if you had to walk weeks through the wilderness to seek assistance.   George Washington was an amazing historical figure.  Even though his famous farewell address was written mostly by James Madison, he laid out the broad strokes of the message he wanted to deliver.   His genius was his judgement.  He sought counsel, chose wisely, inspired confidence and won allegiance.   I think we should listen very carefully to his farewell address.  The words he chose for the final version were very important to him.  He gave us several warnings.   Everyone needs to read them again.  The message is as relevant today as it was then.  Lest we fall under the control of the evil Authority depicted in my book, I urge you to memorize the following passage and meditate on its meaning.

“Against the insidious wiles of foreign influence (I conjure you to believe me, fellow-citizens) the jealousy of a free people ought to be constantly awake, since history and experience prove that foreign influence is one of the most baneful foes of republican government. But that jealousy to be useful must be impartial; else it becomes the instrument of the very influence to be avoided, instead of a defense against it.
Excessive partiality for one foreign nation and excessive dislike of another cause those whom they actuate to see danger only on one side, and serve to veil and even second the arts of influence on the other.  Real patriots who may resist the intrigues of the favorite are liable to become suspected and odious, while its tools and dupes usurp the applause and confidence of the people, to surrender their interests.”

Paul Kengor identifies dupes in US history from past to current time.   I can hear Washington whispering in my ear.

Another excellent article from Zero Hedge.  Seriously, my book is not fiction nor fantasy would you read what DARPA is up to.  Yes, I write about a wildly imaginative government operated mind control program that has been perfected, with “slave” alien labor, a plantation within which the consciousness of human souls is harvested.    After reading this article I am less shy about the plot of my book.  It would not surprise me in the least to see that there actually is an underground operation center tracking and controlling such activity, especially of rebel souls.    If there is, without a doubt, a lone Kindred raider stands defiantly atop the underground passage leading to its entrance.   The assault against the monsters that lurk deep within the dark labyrinth of  our society has begun.  Won’t you join the real resistance?

https://www.zerohedge.com/news/2018-12-28/if-you-were-chief-cia-consciousness-ops

I love watching the matrix for glitches.  They are becoming so easy to find nowadays.  Not sure if I am getting better or the Authority is getting sloppy.

Case in point, compare the MSM differences in coverage between the criticism of Saudi Arabia and China over its treatment of journalists.   The outrage over the singular disappearance of the Washington Post reporter in the Saudi embassy to the sheer lack of reporting on China’s treatment of the same professionals.

Thank God for outlets like Zero Hedge.  They consistently shine the light on the dark corners of the conspiracy.

https://www.zerohedge.com/news/2018-12-28/chinese-journalist-sentenced-4-years-over-subversive-retweets

“China has imprisoned more journalists and bloggers than any other country, with 60 behind bars currently in cases that human-rights groups claim amount to political persecution.”

Come on MSM.  Who are you working for exactly?  Why cover up for an authoritarian communist regime?

Would it have anything to do with the tough trade negotiations that are currently underway?

https://www.zerohedge.com/news/2018-12-29/trump-dems-stop-presidential-harassment-and-come-make-deal-wall-funding

Think about who the real life dictator is?  Wouldn’t Xi absolutely love the US MSM to tear into the President during difficult trade negotiations?  Who benefits?  Ask yourself why a communist totalitarian government gets a free pass from the US media?  Unfortunately, this is nothing new.  Read the book “American Betrayal” by Dianna West.  The cover up has been going on since the inception of Marxism and its bloody revolution in Russia.

As I have said multiple times, history is not what you think it is.  For me, all roads lead back to Harpers Ferry, WV and John Brown’s raid.  Ask yourself another question:  what would a 2nd raid on Harpers Ferry look like?

We should all return to that place where we knew ourselves and liked who we were.  Where the land lays perfectly under our feet.  The wind was a friend.  The trees swayed their branches in welcome.  The wind whispered where ya been?  I believe some places fit us perfectly.  Sadly, we don’t realize it until a dark depression sets in.  The loss we feel is inexplicable.  Something has changed.   We are the same person but unfamiliar.  Then, by chance, your memories recall something dimly.  Was it a time?  You hope not.  A moment that past is gone forever.  No, it was a place. You can see it.  Returning is redemption.  Your boots carry you back through timber.  Elevation gains you a mountain ridge with a view that clears your mind.  You journey to a place that you already are.   I blogged about this sensation before.   I was reminded of it last night when watching the Turnpike Troubadors perform “The Bird Hunters.”  I was surprised that a song could trigger the same feeling.  I found it even more amazing that I saw the same experience shared by hundreds of people signing lyrics alone but in unison.

“How good does it feel, we belong in these hills.”

Pretty damn good I thought in my head.  It feels pretty damn good to be back in these hills of the mind.

Dec 10 2018 14:47:08 (EST) !!mG7VJxZNCI Q ID: a4e7eb
4242968→
“The times are too grave, the challenge too urgent, and the stakes too high — to permit the customary passions of political debate. We are not here to curse the darkness, but to light the candle that can guide us through that darkness to a safe and sane future.”
–JFK
Q

The Kindred has waged war against The Authority for over a century.  They prowl windy mountain ridges and dark, dismal hollows.   They carry a wrathful empathy in their hearts.

He was warned against taking the fire road over the mountain at night.  Especially, if fresh snow had fallen.  A piercing wind cut through human clothes.  Only fur kept blood warmly pumping.  Shadows swept across his way pushed by a pulsating moonlight.  Noises scratched frostily from the darkness.  Down below he could see the village twinkling like a human milky way.  For now, his lantern cast a small circle of light.  It  impossibly pushed back against the enveloping darkness of the wood.  Rushing now, his feet pushed snow up above his boots.  The fire road came to an end.  He stepped onto the village lane.  Warmth and safety, friendship and cheer were so close.  The smell of wood fires burning seeped comfortably into his consciousness.  A shadow stepped before him.   A creature crossed the arc of his lantern light and screamed into his face.  Hot breath not his own flushed his cheeks.  Too late to react.  Upside down, he was carried away.  The lantern fell from his hand.  Only a frightened fox would tell the tale of his demise .

 

 

 

This slideshow requires JavaScript.