What was that bad news that haunted me yesterday as I wandered forlorn and fey?

A text from Guru Rick:

“News… New York is offering plane tickets to migrants from anywhere! Shelters cannot make the fire codes, are overcrowded. Over 130,000 airline migrants into New York this year.”

The normal American sees this in one or two ways.

The progressive heart bleeds for the downtrodden military age men who have left their women and elders to the mercy of some enemy in a war created by Uncle Satan in their bid to occupy a slice of the fermented American Pie.

She is correct.

The conservative heart sees this as a plot by certain minions of Uncle Satan to boost the progressive electorate and make it impossible to elect a conservative.

He is correct.

But, they both miss the deeper point. Elections can be dictated by the Creep State, votes magicked in or out of being. Why this thirst to import persons?

As I know numerous people who have been stricken with terminal illness right after getting waxxed, I suspect that USG minions of Uncle Satan have calculated that American population will decline steeply. The thirst for any immigrants from anywhere makes sense to the nation state. For a nation’s ultimate wealth is the interaction of subjects with its natural resources.

Also, the more diverse the subjects the less united they will be against their oppressor, their enemy, The State.

In my favorite game, Empires In Arms, France dominated on land because they had #2 manpower and #2 money of 7 major powers. Britain dominated at sea with #7 manpower and #1 money. A nation state is a living thing that quivers like a bleeding person when population declines. A postmodern global state has an even stronger thirst for more subjects, in that postmodern economics depend on consumption in addition to taxation.

This bothered me after a few years of Uncle Satan changing all rules and norms in every facet of life. As I was preparing for my walk, the TV spake:

The local Portland FBI branch announced that hate crimes in Oregon have increased 5 fold over last year, and that these crimes are under reported. This shivered my soul, knowing that only one type of person can be guilty of a hate crime and that I am he. Out I went, lame and limp in the misty shadow of the Omnivorous Leviathan that has declared that I am the enemy of all mankind.

My Land Lady, a native, who has the power to put me on the street at any moment, actual told me 5 days ago, “You are a white man and you can have anything you want in this world.”

Well, all I ever wanted was a small house in the city of my birth to read the only thing I had ever acquired, an extensive book collection. Now, all I have to my name weighs less than 30 pounds, books prohibited as they are too heavy. This, because of the mantra above, believed by the mass majority…

Crutchwise the Hated

Outside Union Station strummed an old, long-haired man on his guitar.

One male yeti and one female gawdess waited for rides.

Union Station was softly lit with cloud-filtered sunlight.

The tall, handsome, blond man behind the counter treated me like a human being. My round trip tickets to and from San Jose ran $141, $47 less than my one way had cost last month.

My ticket to Seattle on the last day of the year, was only $34!

I did not want to leave the station, so browsed and bought Emma two packs of playing cards: Oregon and Portland. I will mail them to The Brickmouse along with Costin’s annotated book, so he can deliver the cards to her grandmother, Megan.

10:00 AM

Leaving the station I passed a young, clean homeless man with a modest kit, a bit more than I can carry. Our eyes met and we both said, “Good morning.”

I noted on the left side of the street that ends at Union Station, where the Trimet yard is, seven rude habitations constructed of pallets and tarps under the eves of the back wall.

On the right was the Medical Examiner’s office with its private police. I crutched past there, crossed a narrow one way street, and noted that tents lined the sidewalk of that rising way and that ahead, on this main drag that had street car rails, was an entire block of scrap built huts. City officials and contractors, leaning on the bumper of their truck, smiled at me as I limped by. Their two Mexicans were tearing apart the shelters of the homeless, who were a mix of black and white. This past year the population of black homeless has doubled in my view of Portland. The white population has remained teeming and stable.

I had to crutch in the street.

To the left a short pale, red haired fellow pulled down his pants to wipe his ass with a sock, which he cast in the gutter.

To the right a giant, tattooed Kang shook out his mop of dread locks and stretched, yawning, regarding me with a quizzical glance before throwing a dirty shirt at a Mexican, who caught it and bagged it as he harvested his sorry crop. The walls and floors of these habitations had enough pallets to freight a trailer of groceries. These pallets cost between $8 and $100 each.

A block on, finally, I find bums who own fewer possessions than I.

A large, blond man, balding on top, nearing 40, in torn jeans and polo shirt, sat on a bed of wet clothes, his feet bare. He was agitated and mumbling as he sorted clothes and tossed what he was offended by into the street.

Being lame and old and small besides, crutching along among so many agitated and wounded giants, as most the men are well over six foot, is not so much intimidating as surreal. I am literally a ghost. I no longer meet my own definition of a man: he who can and will fight.

This realization hits when I turn left off the street that ends the downtown run and cross a half block over to the street that begins the out of town run for 9 buses. A big young man, drooling and wide eyed, his auburn hair clean down to the jacketed shoulders, under his white knit hat with green beanie, looks down into and through me, as if he only sees a low shadow. He shakes his head and wanders on, I not being what he sought, or perhaps thought.

A mated pair of homeless Polynesian waifs sort clothing from a tent on a sidewalk that seems to have failed in the morning rain.

There is a dwarf at the bus stop, who boards the #9.

As I await the #17, a big young man with thick brown hair, in his 20s, owning a laceless set of boots, dirty jeans, an army surplus jacket and an empty backpack staggers towards me.

I hang between the crutches as this man looks at me, tittering like some soul-feasted god that had been awakened from a thousand year slumber. His neurological damage is far more extensive than mine. He seems to consider taking my crutches, as he can barely walk and seems to have been stomped extensively or hit by a car. He twitches, drools, stems, stammers, titters against the wall and looks into my eyes from a set of blue eyes that was trying to recall who their owner was. This man was utterly destroyed. This wrecked cracker is AMERICA.

I board the bus and the same kind, big man smiles at me and waits for me to sit before moving.

I called my darling editor of the silver voice and reported on my condition, writing production and discussed the severe illnesses of men close to me, one of whom introduced me to the Doctor today as, “My son in law,” making me proud and sad in one phrase.

Offloading at Foster I placed both crutches in one hand and used this great cane to limp for about an our for the 10 blocks to the Mount Scott Community Center, while speaking with Lynn.

The center is closing on the 22nd for earthquake renovations. Kelly had told me that a man he once boxed with coached there and that a heavy bag and speed bag would be there. The boxing equipment is no more. The notion of a boxing room seemed strange to the pretty lady behind the counter. She offered me a brochure and a tour. I walked one hall and saw all of the cross fit, yoga, pilates and weight training gurus on posters. Past the weight and machine room there was an abstract freeze of two figures boxing. Under this, Coach Minsky, a national amateur boxing champion is noted as a founder of this facility. What an irony, that his art is now beyond the dysgenic pale.

I crutched off wan and weird in the wet mist, enjoying the beautiful cedars, firs and weeping spruce on 72nd Street down to Holgate. There I boarded the #17 again, operated by a younger, stout fellow. The other passenger was an immense, crippled, 500 pound American land whale of unclear gender. This poor, polite, suffering creature was on oxygen and an IV. When it pleaded weakly for its stop, the driver stopped, set down the ramp, and very tenderly unstrapped the great machine, whose suffering occupant thanked in a manner that let the both of us know that there was no one waiting at home with a helping hand, that this bus ride was all the human society that Uncle Satan had to offer its discarded subjects.

At 104th Street, this pathetic discard limped off the bus to a cheery good day from the driver and teetered on down the beautiful way.

At 2:00 PM, I returned home, moped the hardwood floor, vacuumed the carpet, cleaned the bathroom, showered and situated myself in this cozy writing spot. Here I consider anew Costin’s book on breeding better citizens.

I must retire to history and fiction and avoid writing of future impressions until year’s end.