Recently a young writer, having just joined Patreon and gained a glimpse of the massive unexhumed grave that was Plantation America, e-mailed me and said it was nice to see that I was posting again and how he understood, that given the content of my American history project, that I suffered from depression and was afflicted by bitterness.

This bemused me as I have never known depression and was only bitter once that I can recall as an adult. As a youth I was generally confused, befuddled and despairing of finding a place in this world. Apparently the good fellow mistook my publishing schedule on this primary platform, jameslafond.com, as somehow indicative of recent writing output, when there is little relation, as generally have 40-60 unpublished articles awaiting scheduling and posting on the various platforms at any given time. Ironically, when he wrote me glad that I was writing again, I could not answer him at length or write this article, as I was down with eye seizures—what I call the spasms and inner lightning strikes of this failing right eye.

However, he does raise a point. The American history material I am working on is a sore spot for me. Having never been interested in American history, and not knowing it was phony, I stumbled upon the real American history while researching a science fiction novel in 2012. Once I discovered that hundreds of thousands, and as many as 2 million, abducted, trafficked and forgotten European children were worked, beaten, and raped to death in the land of my birth, contrary to standard American history, I felt a sense of responsibility to uncover this buried episode in the hideous human drama. Like a dog-walker who discovers a body, I felt honor-bound to at least notify the next of kin. And, much like that dog-walker who then becomes the prime police suspect, I have been inconvenienced by their nefarious interest—in this case by the Thought Patrol. As well, the next of kin are not happy to discover the death in the family of the long lost cousin they thought had ended his days happily climbing Mount Everest, who has actually been strangled in the neighborhood homeless camp.

So, I resent the 30 novels that will never be written because I wasted my creative time doing historical work for which I have been punished by my publishers, for which I will be vilified by academics should the work gain wide currency, and which will be covered over and once again forgotten in the end.

However, I am not bitter, because I never expected anything from this world other than a slap in the face, a poke in the eye and an admonishment from those in power—which describes almost exactly my first day at school in September of 1969, across the street from the Plantation of Tobias Stansbury, who worked slaves that looked just like me in the 1680s, before any Maryland Englishman, including the Governor of the Province of Maryland, could afford to buy the Alpha Romeo of American slaves: the saintly African.

Now, resentment I do know, in that my eyes are shot and those 30 novels will mostly remain unwritten. However, for a product of the five-retard strong Pleasant Plains Elementary School Special Reading Class, to look back on a life lived against the corrupt morals of this sick society, and to see that I have written more books than any man of my age, bitterness merely echoes as a distant and almost forgotten knell.

I once knew bitterness, in my 20s, after marrying my very amicable girlfriend and then, on our very wedding night, having her stop talking, cooking and fucking—and to begin telling me I was a lazy twerp—there was no longer a point to being nice to me, as I had been effectively entrapped in her web of deceit. That piped as a bitter cup of uncaffeinated joe from 1982 until1993, when I gave America the middle finger, started carrying an illegal weapon, began standing up to negroes and even terrifying their feint hyena hearts on the streets of America's worst city, and commenced banging 1 in 3 of the lonely women cast my way by shrill Aphrodite upon the cruel tides of Modernity.

I haven't felt bitterness since little Suzy kept me from stepping in front of that city bus at Highland and Lombard and took me to her depressing apartment and blew me for two days.

Depression, I have seen, and She seems a cruel mistress, like one of the vile Furies masquerading as Morpheus. For those who suffer from this, my heart goes out, but blindly, because I do not actually know what they feel—the manic monkey on my back driving me so incessantly to my foolish tasks that I do not have the luxury of such afflictive repose.

When my eyes seize up and I have to medicate and nap, unable to sleep as the wheels of this goon of a rampant mind keep turning towards aims unreachable, I take mental notes, the echoes in my skull banging the quivering gong of that throbbing eye rendering the words unspeakable. So I find relief in scrawling with a pen on pads, and collect a litany of outlines for stories and articles never to be written.

But to be bitter over a life lived twice in one span, having written more than old Louis L'Amour, that simpering sentiment does not occur. Bitterness is to hold another responsible for your plight. But it was I that failed, not the winning world. The world turned because the world turns, and I fell and wearied of rising. I'm not a victim—I'm a loser, a quitter...and gifted in that with a perspective to write well from the vantage of one who has not done well. I quite fell into a parting redemption, among the luckiest of my underkind.

I will not be the first to be ruined by this great planet or to be devoured by The Powers. Nor will I be the last. It is what we are—food. I at least marred the menu with a sardonic missive to the diner that he too is on the menu.

That good fortune is not because I'm a remarkably strong man like old Louis, but rather has to do, I think, with the fact that I knew myself to be meek, stupid and weak from age five when the other kindergarten kids plaid “punchbuggy” on me in their mother's car, and I knew myself to have no potent recourse. Not being buoyed by talent, confidence or good fortune, my achievable life horizon did not loom as some soaring Olympian bar—the cause of much bitterness among those of talent and privilege—but sagged like the felt rope that long ago barred the entrance to a now deserted theater, awaiting its lone, unpaying patron long after the moviegoers had all been swept away.

I have been lucky to be cursed and fortunate to have attended this rollicking farce unversed.

Time tumbles by, and soon there I will lie.