ANTIFA


Antifa appears to be a cult that sucks in the biologically/mentally/sexually deranged ("mattoids") and through mind-altering techniques formats them into a violent 21st-century brand of shock troops. It may be steered from way far behind, but it is steered. It is a plotted thing.

Just this week I saw a pack of them in my neighborhood QFC market, dark-clothed and carrying dark backpacks, stocking up on drinks and snacks before hitting downtown Seattle. They appeared small, scrawny (dumbed down females, for the most part), small in personalities too. They moved between the aisles stilly like snakes in grass.

Their particular kind of violence, best described as thug-violence (sucker-punching, wolfpack attacks, no "honor," "fairness," "respect" for women, even children), has been an essential trait of their public activity. They have been stripped of the conventional morality and ethics, and it can be assumed that the violent part has been deliberately designed to put fear into the common White folks, so they would not easily integrate into meaningful street movements.

Such street outbreaks seem to become the next phase for the ethnic Europeans worldwide (e.g. "yellow jackets" in France) since "democracy" doesn't work anymore. Behold the attacks on the Million MAGA March folks in Washington, D.C. on November 14, 2020. When the crowd began dispersing and the prospective victims could be approached as isolated groups of few individuals, they were viciously physically mangled. They will "remember" it's not a walk in the park.

Antifa's unleashed rage-dogs arrested for violence in Portland, OR:

Did Margaret Sanger Like Flowers?


Nancy, a single woman, as they call the spinsters in our easy day. Trimming a lilac hedge for Nancy. Some kitchen woodwork next, if this goes well.

Something burnt out about Nancy. A divorce, maybe. A weak spot for strong male egos, perhaps. A couple of those and gone is most of the best a woman comes with. And Nashville overflows with that genus.

She returned to her hometown two years back, having spent in Nashville her young woman’s prime. She was trying there for a vocal break. It didn’t come. She stayed on as a backup bird. She doesn’t talk about it, just drops a word or two. But that’s what I figure happened to Nancy. In Nashville, Tennessee.

Back home she found a job at Planned Parenthood. She doesn’t seem to count for much there, an errand girl. Not easy finding work in a small town.

The kitchen woodwork done, she brings up PP, would I fix for that outfit. A cautious proposal. Well, it’s PP, terminating pregnancies. Scraping life.

DISGUSTING (right on, JW)

The truth goes places


 

Compare with


And now with


The speech Polish Prime Minister Beata Szydło
gave
in the Polish Parliament on May 24, 2017. In
December 2017 in a shady political reshuffle and
in a humiliating fashion a beloved of the “flyover
Poland" Lady Prime Minister was removed from
the top office.


The Third Rail

a chapter from Seattle

Heyward Studio
My first piece in English was a novella about my childhood town. I wrote it in 1990, seven years after I had hit America. It got me invited to the MacDowell Colony in Peterborough, New Hampshire, for a writer residency.
Thornton Wilder wrote Our Town at MacDowell. I was now walking the streets of Grover’s Corners of the play. I first saw Our Town on a Commie TV as a teen and never again, but I was easily replaying now from the memory the chirping of the kids in the play, the concerned voices of the parents, the politeness of the neighbors, the eerie life-longings of the denouement. After watching it just once at the early stage in life, this wholesome-as-much-as-life-affords-wholesome world had gotten imprinted in me like a prayer. A variation of a call to go.

Childhood

a chapter from Americaa

The Ellwoods are fourth-generation ranchers. Roger, Connie, four kids. On Sundays, we all drive to church in town. That’s where I met them when the Outlaw Inn receptionist and her family took me along the first time. I got a gig on the Ellwoods’ ranch now, and rent a cabin for 20 bucks a month.

An intriguing li’l faith tribe these kindly folks are. When we take meals or chat on the porch or wherever we happen to have bunched, there’s typically a lot of laughter. A special kind of laughter, triggered not so much by looking at things in an off-the-wall way, but flowing out of a steady gladness of being. One reason is, I figure, that they don’t watch TV, don’t listen to the radio, don’t go to the movies, even the local paper they buy only on the weekends and mainly for the local news. They even remove the radios and the antennas, and the ashtrays of course, from their cars.

“Gimmie the pliers,” I bid them, “I’ll do the same in my buggy!”

They laugh.