When I lived in Berryville Virginia, I use to go for long runs from my rented farmhouse down a series of rural lanes that intersected countless cattle and horse pastures, as well as, seasonal crop fields and even a few patches of isolated woods. Eventually, I would end up at the Shenandoah River.   Turning either North or South, I would run along its banks for miles.  In one particularly remote section of the lane, I would glance at this gap in the two fence lines.  Most people would probably never think twice about this gap but my imagination was fired by it.  To me it was not a sign of dilapidation in need of maintenance an aging farmer had yet to notice.   No, it was an passageway intentionally created by a secret rebel group that transited hidden across the area.  I imagined a series of such openings following a barely visible path running along its own subversive concourse.  I was sure that if I waited there long enough, I would see a world weary insurgent defiantly trespass its intended restriction.  No, it was not merely a hole in the fence line.  I was sure of that.

My book “Wrathful Empathies, The 2nd Raid on Harpers Ferry is fundamentally about good versus evil, freedom versus enslavement and what happens when people finally resist an intolerable oppression. Forget the fake resistance movement we see today from the left. It is manufactured by secret hands of the Authority. I am talking about rebels in the mountains and forests who go deep underground. They fight from the shadows, appearing like heroes of ancient lore when critical times call for dangerous actions. These warriors are multi-generational. Their sense of liberty is inherited through a bloodline. I strongly believe that another such episode of John Brown’s actions are building like an underground volcano. The below poem and image capture their dilemma and subsequent outcome of what comes next. Sensing an existential annihilation, their violent reaction will result in the birth of a terrible new creature. If you want to know how it all ends, read my book. If you already feel a dark sense of apprehension, at least you are aware of the approaching danger…

Morgoth’s Review asks this critical question at one point in his fascinating narration of The Snowman story and its seemingly inexplicable popularity with modern day Englishmen. My answer is yes. Absolutely, that is what my book Wrathful Empathies is all about!

Communist Chinese are taking over Hong Kong just like they did Tibet so many years ago.  Nothing really changes. The trucks and tanks arrive in relentless columns.   Suddenly, the US press looks away.  Ignorance is bless.  Totalitarian Marxist power suffers no questions nor complaints.  People are crushed in the darkness of ignorance.

Mao said “political power grows out of the barrel of a gun”.  No shit.  It works effectively.  Whether it is applied for good is a matter of objectivity.

Just like Bolshevik Russia and any other communist takeover, the bloodshed will be dutifully covered up by the mainstream media.

Nothing really changes.

The conspiracy of silence (if not outright support) from the deep state continues just like it did for Joseph Stalin under FDR.

Ask yourself what US President is currently giving China hell….  And look at the criticism that he is taking.  Why would this be justified if it was just a disagreement over what is best for American workers?   Maybe the mainstream media really favors China after all…

“Can’t we all get along”?   Rodney King asked naively.

Bend the knee and all will be forgiven.   Stand tall and face the dragon fire.

In my book, I described an imagined vision my fictional version of Lord Thomas Fairfax has just before his death of a baby in its crib being strangled by its swaddling clothes. The character does not know how to save it. This disturbing image came to me and I had did not know what it meant. Like so many things in my book, I merely transcribed visions into words. It was the only way to relieve myself of their recurrence.
I believe my vision comes from somewhere across the universe. A message maybe. Or, a warning. Not sure. It definitely means something.

It finally came to me that the baby in the crib was the new American Republic. It survived the violent war of revolution only to lay defenseless in afterbirth. Forces had not yet coalesced for it defense. Enemies of freedom quickly regroup and move in to destroy the unprotected nation.

This its an eternal battle. George Washington won the war but was besieged again from all sides. Unable to distinguish from patriot to traitor, he makes a critical mistake. His enemies knew he would value honor and loyalty first. Edmund Randolph was his Secretary of State and proponent of a significant trade agreement with France; a country who provided critical support at the battle of Yorktown. Without French support our victory would not have been possible. Our young nation was about solidify this national security alliance under the trade partnership negotiated by Edmund Randolph. Instead, Alexander Hamilton created a probably manufactured publicly release of a correspondence that questioned his loyalty to President Washington. Very convenient for England, the empire we just defeated in an existential battle. The trade treaty with France was irrevocable terminated in favor for a trade treaty with England that Hamilton favored. This launched our first debt service to a global banking system.

Randolph is forgotten and Hamilton exalted. Coincidence? I think not. The same forces that empowered Hamilton back then exist today. The battle continues. Ask yourself, why would we enslave ourselves to the Bank of England after defeating their forces on the bloody fields of battle across the American landscape. George Washington valued personal honor and harshly judged Randolph for his alleged transgressions of negotiating a trade treaty in secrecy. Clearly, this did not happen. Randolph demonstrated his innocence and defended himself against all slander. Too late, however, slander carries the moment and is impossible to correct. Trump knows of where I speak.

That is why I resurrect Edmund Randolph from the mist of history. He was the real patriot and Hamilton the enemy of the Republic.

Lets revisit this event and see who really cared for the crying new born in the cradle. Whose hands indeed wrap the swaddling clothes of the crib around the neck of the striving baby struggling to breath.

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Things get especially interesting at dusk in the forest. Shadows take over. I concentrate on not looking too closely as they stretch towards me. If the wind is moving through the high branches, the shadows mimic this movement of nature.

Eventually, I forget not to stare for too long. Big mistake. Regretfully, I admit that I see forms that should not be there. My mind cannot makes sense of what I am seeing. It is disturbing.

Confronting my fears, I stop what I am doing, turn and focus my sight. It is at this point, the mind must be controlled. I am at the point of accepting what is appearing before me or rejecting it as impossible. If successful in this battle, the later wins out and I explain the shadows away. They go back to form that makes sense casted by something natural. If my mind loses control over my vision, the shadow creatures become fully formed.

I struggle to keep them at distance from my camp. I quickly build a fire. The dancing flamess create counter shadows. A small but comforting circle of light protects me. As long as the flames flicker, the Shadow Creatures keep their distance staring from their glooming darkness. The barrier of light ultimately diminishes as my collected pile of firewood is exhausted. As the final flames surrender, once again, the shadow creatures become bold and approach.

An evil spirit has followed me to camp from that narrow hollow I passed through miles ago. I disturbed its ground with my boots. It pursued me. I sensed it. A rustling of leaves echoing my footsteps. When I stopped, it stopped.

“Go back”, I yell into the night. “I am sorry. I meant no offence.” I sense no mercy. This malevolent spirit is full of hate and wants only revenge for a past offense. I was not the original offender. This is an ancient feud. I just happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. The only thing that can save me now is summoning my own ancient wrath. From deep within my DNA, I transform into a beast much like the ancient demigod Cuhcullin.

Far down the mountain and across a darkened field, a farmer turns off the engine of his truck. The headlights dim as its electrical current bleeds dry. He climbs down from his cluttered cab onto the hardscrabble drive. Suddenly, his bent frame twists spontaneously at an unearthly sound from the distance ridge. Eyes widen and head tilted, he listens through the wind as fierce growls and unearthly shrieks create a cacophony of horrific violence. Hurriedly, slams shut the truck door. A terrified glance over his shouldehe causes him to stumble. With bad knees, he climbs with difficulty the four steps to the farmhouse door. The protection of his house is punctuated with loud bang of the thick wooden slamming shut. He turns the deadbolt. “This is no night to be out” he whispers to the empty house. There is a fight in the woods and it isn’t between animals nor humans. He wants no part of it. With more force than is necessary, he flips the switch illuminating all four corners of his stone house. Flood lights push back the darkness across his yard at the base of a dark looming mountain ridge. He swipes back the curtains and stares through the window clutching his shotgun tightly. He looks into the shadows but not too closely. Drawing the curtains he climbs the stairs to the second floor bedroom. Turning off the light on the night stand next to the bed, he lays a shotgun next to him on the bed. A gust of wind pelts the glass of his window bringing with it tormented screams of a far off combatant losing its battle for life. Before falling asleep, he prays the rural electricity cooperative keeps the lights on across the Valley tonight.

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If you are like me, a full moon wakes you up in the quite hours of the night. With a gentle but persistent voice it says “Look what you are missing, its beautiful out here”. I dutifully follow ancient instruction and look out the window, or, better yet, step outside into the night. My bare feet gripping the moist and usually cold ground. “Yes”, I concur. It is indeed beautiful but also magical. There is a mystery revealed to me even though I don’t understand it. Always, I silently agree that it is best just to experience, to feel and not understand. Then strange things happen. Kindred souls appear from the shadows, standing there in the darkness staring with me up towards the moon. Fox, cat, wolf, human, ghost, I see them all. We silently acknowledge each other only to lift our eyes upward again. The moon pulses with a message. I don’t understand what it is saying and wonder if the shadow creatures do. Before I can ask them, they fade back into darkness. I go back to sleep and dream of foxes playing in a moonlight field. Apparently, this is not an experience unique to me. I found this video that captures my dreams.

When I was a Peace Corps volunteer in the Maghreb (Mauritania) I met several African marabouts in my journeys across the Sahel. They were introduced to me as Islamic holy men but I quickly picked up on a much more nuanced shamanistic nature to their work. Some are blind village dwellers while others who are physically capable wander the land surviving solely on alms. I became increasingly convinced these men were modern day John the Baptist types that were completely liberated from this world. They effused an inner insight that reminded me of Nietzsche and his Übermensch. I could clearly see they possessed a dancing star in their chaotic minds which prevented them from existing in society. I want to live that purity of purpose in coarse camel wool clothing. Wandering off, the burnt bush will take me into oblivion. It seems like the only faithful way to exist. Mark Ewing would disappear and what remained would be pure truth. I almost did this back in 1986. However, something called me back at the last minute. I think it may have been the thought of my parents besieging the US Embassy to search for their son gave me pause. As you know, I didn’t obliterate myself. Its scary though that the feeling is still there in the dark corners of my soul. Something is calling me to make a change, something drastic. Stay tuned. I think adventures await.

My daughter Rebecca is hard at work being an artist.  I hope to have her illustrate some of my characters and episodes in the near future.  In the meantime, she is a scenic artist for the Virginia Repertory Theater in Richmond where she is painting fantastic set designs.  If you journey to a mountain top in my favorite State (Vandalia), you can see her work at the Yonderville Music Festival in the coming weeks.   Becky is also performing rap poetry, live portrait sketches and any assortment of creative expressions in downtown Richmond, VA.

Here is one quick sketch of hers that captures a sublime moment where nature reveals the greater universe.  If you have ever hooked a trout on a fly rod you might just understand what I am talking about.

If I were to select a song that expressed the pain and state of mind of my character “Los” in Wrathful Empathies it would be this one by Travis Meadows.  In the end, “Los” traded it all just to get her back.  Intrigued, read the book to understand.

Yes, this happened in 1989. So why bring it up now? The big tech companies are helping the communist government cover up the atrocity on its 30th anniversary. Why is Google doing this?

You better believe some of these heroes will reappear as “Kindred” in my upcoming book. History is so much fun! Especially when you uncover the truth. This story goes totally against the current narrative lectured to us. Unlike their Spartan counterparts, however, the sacrifice these heroes made is forgotten. Their bodies lay buried in unmarked graves. Volunteers all, these “immortals” represented all class and race. They were made up of rich and poor, young and old, white and free black. Women who loved them played an important role in their battles as well. Despite their different backgrounds, the Maryland 400 warriors shared one vision: The American Declaration of Independence. When I imagined “The Kindred” in my first book, I was trying to capture unsung heroes that emerge from the mist, fight gallantly, only to retreat back into the fog once victory is ensured. They care not for recognition. Ever watchful, they follow the action from the treeline and step forward only when things are most desperate.