Paul is putting this old crumb up in a hotel in Saint Louis and bringing a couple fighters north from the Ozarks for training.

This is a free clinic, placed in Saint Louis in hopes that Midwest fighters who lack training partners can make some connections and get some work in while the old gimp is still hobbling about.

This is a free event.

Paul will try to get training space in the hotel he is stashing me in. Regardless, he is confident that the depressed local economy will enable his horse shoeing money to rent some space.

We are hoping for a 11:00 AM to 3:00 PM, or 12 to 4 PM, slot.

Contact Paul for the details as he arranges for the venue at: 417-671-1369

I will be traveling with saber mask, gloves, and mouthpiece.

We will train:

Boxing

Stick

Blade

Each of the above segments will be structured as:

Forensic Properties of the Methods = brief intro

Light sparring = main section

A quick round for each man interested = brief

Slow self defense scenario drills = secondary section

Q & A review

Bring whatever of the following items you are interested in training with

Hockey or lacrosse gloves

Fencing mask

Boxing gloves

Work gloves, leather fingertips preferred

Rattan sticks

Blunt Training Knives

Dull machetes

Thank you, Paul.

I will aim to arrive in Saint Louis Thursday 24th, which on that train line may mean Friday 25th, and will take the train east from Saint Louis, thru Chicongo to Pittsburgh from Sunday afternoon thru Monday.

I expect to be training with Erique in Lancaster, PA on Sunday the 4th,

with Damien in Gettysburg on Monday 5th [I will need a ride for this session to workout]

and in Towson MD Thursday 8th.

These dates are not yet solid.

If you are interested call or text me at 443-686-0598

“It is fascinating how fragile our infrastructure is. The recent rains in North Carolina will require changes in topographical maps. It reminds me of Japanese land management, which requires precise study of water flow patterns. Of course, as we see weather patterns which we don’t have experience with in our brief social memory, thought of Velikovsky comes to mind, when he wrote that “Saturn sends the rains” in relation to the Great Flood. Those kinds of civilization ending magnitudes, well, even thinking about it is daunting and, obviously, not much but massive stone work is ever left behind. From your travels, what have you observed concerning potential mid-scale hydraulic change in modern infrastructure.”

-Lynn, from an editorial prompt

…

In terms of what we make, exposure seems to be a big risk factor. Exposure to wind, such as the wide boulevard known as Northern Parkway I travel on. Portions of this avenue are cut along old land creases. Two years ago a tornado blew down this street as if it were a spinning top funneled down a toy race track, down the path of least resistance. Wide roadways seem to be more prone to disaster. These are not only exposed, but are paths of least resistance that are wider and longer than most natural features. These are also not made with stone, but with sticky gravel, oiled dirt in spots, various grades of concrete. These also serve as sewer vectors and storm drains, inviting the rains.

You are best served living along a narrow street that winds and is surfaced in brick.

Train tracks and beds actually hold up much better. These are made of stone, are cross hatched with beams called “ties” and iron rails. Additionally, railways are much more narrow than parallel roads. The side street I live on here, the road surface itself, is slightly wider than a railway that services nationwide traffic. Railroad beds have also been raised, where roads are painted on the landscape, cut through, carved out and sunken. Where railroads cut through, they do so with rock, not into soil banks. Interstates did use this cut process, which is so much uglier than rail, because one lane of a 4 to 12 lane highway is wider than both rail tracks, let alone one. A more narrow, stone cut does less to catch, funnel and intensify wind and flood than wide swaths of harder and therefor slicker, faster surfaces. Also, roads are made steeper than rails, as the train must climb gradually, wind like a river, and behave more naturally and less intensely.

My amateur observations, surely have engineering treatments that I do not understand. I simply note that fast built ways encourage speed of travel for vehicles, winds and water.

Trees are removed more completely for roads than for railways. Also, new developments, due to their erection having to do with making money, not making long term living spaces, built for 30 years maximum habitation, are dozed quickly. The old area of Baltimore I live in at the moment was dozed into lanes as well, going cross ways to various natural drainage patterns. But, these homes were built of brick, with concrete pit basements. Even as these places become ruins and the basements fill to become cisterns, then the brick walls implode and fill the basements, new rocky ridges will have been made.

By contrast, modular homes parked or slapped together

in quick dozed teardrop cuts, have no mature trees between structures, no root system to slow mud floods and prevent mudslides, and are not cut into rock. Quick building of meet-puppet sheds precludes cutting into rock. As insane as coastal sky scraper building is, with 3 to 10 levels of basements only kept from flooding by massive power outlays, side hill mud pan construction on the back sides of soil covered mountains across the country, seem like advertisements for the next Noah movie. When we see the backside of a hill being dozed into mudslide channels, before ultra light one- to two- generation housing is slapped up, and then oil roads are painting on, we realize that this is temporary.

The architects of our fleeting civilization envision the housing of today being quickly overgrown with weeds, [1] forests coming back, and then nature preserves cultivating. The rocky, stone and brick ruins of antiquity often remain, as those were expressions of community, stony attempts at continuity. Only an elite few are envisioned as remaining to enjoy the fruits of a rejuvenated earth after she has been pillaged of her rare earths to erect something sustainable for the human life lines that matter. Most of us are merely the wick and the tallow that feeds the flame kept by our masters; a flame shimmering so that the demons that rule us might take aim at a renewing paradise where they are god stalking among the garden and what remains of us is the mere urine expelled after the drinking of our sorrow for their wicked pleasure the night before.

The plan was always to return North America to its natural state, or power lines would have never bee run above ground, let alone hung under angry skies.

Notes

-1. Quick growing weeds, imported from Japan, I think, are used in Southeastern America to reclaim cheap construction.

In this visit, I had a concussion and was not so focused and dear Cousin Michael was excited about new findings. Three subjects that came up in this well of excited fascination, William Hood, Alexander Quaid and Uncle Bill and Aunt Bet, have been set aside as separate articles #5, #6 & #7. The first phase of this discussion follows and then we will focus on the mechanics of Mike’s look into the birth records.

To the Office of Register of Vital Statistics, Board of Health, Baltimore City

“I looked from 1895 through 1905 for Lillian Seibel, birth of twins, boy and girl. Your mom says Lillian told her that he died at birth or soon after. He is not on the census for 1900. She was, they put 1 over 12 for her, a fraction of the year. The address is just a few doors down from the address that appears on this document. The name that is on the census is Lillian Arthur, who must have been the father.”

“She lives for two years without a husband. She was living with her mother and father and her unmarried siblings. Her father dies that same year of 1900 or soon after, then she lives with her mother. When she applies for divorce in 1903 the father has passed away. In the divorce testimony, her mother, Willhamena, but she went by Mini, says that she had to support William Hood, who had no job. Lizzy Siebel, who every body knew as Grandma Jubb, married William Hood [for which there will be an extensive treatment], that lasted all of two weeks, then she married James Jubb.

“They made the society pages—the Jubbs were not working class.

“I made a mistake and found the wrong James Jubb.

“My mother remembers Grandma Jubb drinking coffee from a saucer, because she lived just a few houses up on McKewin Avenue.

“I have a marriage certificate of Elizabeth Siebel and William Hood.

“So, we’re not Jubbs.

“I have left numerous ancestry sites because of all of these white people claiming that they are Cherokee. That is like me saying I’m black because my Great Grandfather was. I’m not any, because my Mom was adopted. I wasn’t supposed to happen because my dad was having extensive chemo therapy in 1968, and shazzam, Cherry got pregnant. Then when she married John, John was supposed to be sterile from having mumps as a kid. And bam! Johnny was born, and she made John have vascectomy. [Not even trying to spell it.]

“We couldn’t sleep out overnight in our back yard because the “boogies” would get us and when we drove through Park Heights she’d say roll up your windows were going through niցցer safari country. During the riots her and Mike Jones, my bio dad, were driving around with a white flag on their antenna until the National Guard pulled them over and told them to get home. My mom was a cub scout leader and was pissed off because she had to have a Filipino and black kid in the group—now she would deny that ever happened.

“We are Arthurs, biologically. I consider the family you are raised in more important than the biology. I see more examples of nurture being transmitted down than nature.

“Lillian was born, our great grandmother, was born out of wedlock, before our great great grandmother married James Jubb. Lillian was adopted by James Jubb, after the fact. That’s why we are legally but not biologically Jubbs. Jubb could come from two different places. It’s middle English for Jew or its Frisian for Job, for someone who works really really hard, doing slave labor if you are Frisian. So there is possible there is some crypto Jew origins. It’s so complicated. It makes sense to me because I’ve been doing it for so long. I learn in bits and pieces. I try to explain it to people and they have a hard time. This is the first time I really plowed through a certain aspect of our family. I tend to get distracted and this is the first time I really put my nose to the grind stone.

“Yes, Great Grandma [Lillian] was a bastard. She was with her biological mother [Lizzy, Elizabeth Siebel], [1] and adopted by her mother’s second husband, James Jubb. James moved into their place, at 449 North Milton Avenue. The Siebels came from Germany.

[So Lizzy has Lillian by a man named Arthur, whose first name is not known, as Michael has not gotten that record yet.]

“Can only assume his last name was Arthor because that is the name she is listed as in the 1900 census. The census happens every ten years and they are big helps for genealogy.

[Lizzy marries William Hood in 1903, divorces him in 1905, marries Jubb in 1906.]

“Mini is there. She doesn’t die until 1931.

“Lizzy dies in 1957. She’s buried in Loudon Park Cemetery, where her parents were buried.

There is a little remnant Jubb family cemetery where the Jubb plantation was. There is still a Jubb Cover on the Magathy River—what do you think you are, are you a Jubb?

[So speaks Michael to Romao the back cat.]

“James Jubb died in 1940 in Anne Arundel County. My grandmother remembered him as being a farmer and going to visit him at his farm. That is interesting because that is not how he started out. He was a native Baltimorean, so how he ended up in Anne Arundel County on a farm, I don’t know how.

“I have a 1911 blurb from the Baltimore Sun,

Master James E. Jubb, son of the late William and Ella Jubb, a well-known shipping master of East Baltimore, gave a reception in honor of his fiftieth birthday at his home, 1027 South Kenwood Avenue. Music was furnished by Mr. James E. Jubb and Mr. Jeff Davis. Supper was served in the dining room. Among those present:”

[A list of Jubbs, Davis’s and Lechthaler’s.]

“Probably the social section. These kinds of [print] announcements were very common. It was the society page. Other things on the page were prominent figures at Saint John’s, banquets, “health department men eat oysters at a boat club outing,” one of the Siebel weddings is in there:

“The wedding of Mary Louise Seibel, Lizzy’s sister. She is listed as a guest.”

[Shows an extensive description of the people and attire of the wedding.]

“The father of both of these girls was Henry anglicized from Johann. This was in 1902, before the anti-German sentiment. They came from Hessen Germany. He was the son of Johannes Seibel. Mini was already a Seibel when they were married. That was just a coincidence. There seems to be no relation. Henry and Mini were born in Germany. Henry’s parents came here and died here and are buried here. I’m not sure of the timing of the immigration. They are all buried in Loudon Park.]

“Lillian, daughter of Liz, Married Joseph Quaid, in 1917, she would be 17 years old. I have not found their marriage certificate yet. The licenses are online so they are easy to find, she would have been 16 or 17. He would have been 27. All the chicken hawks in our family. James was a lot older than Lizzy too. Could you imagine the brewhahah now. If you are not married on the same day everything is problematic—that’s now everyone’s favorite word.

“A lot of the stuff from the early 20th century, even for the Quaids is called Deutsche Correspondence, a German language newspaper. They used that heavy Gothic German type face which was interesting. The searches still work for newspapers.com. I can find every one’s name. I just have to translate it. Usually the same thing as the Baltimore sun. It only published until 1918. I wonder why?

“The News American [a defunct Baltimore paper] is not available. They just added 200 new papers in the U.S. and from around the world. That is where I found out about Robert L. Pitt’s fornication arrest and all kind of other little tidbits.

“This is fascinating but can be confusing.

“Joseph Quaid died of stomach cancer in, 27 November 1948.

“Him and Grandma are buried in Most Holy Redeemer Cemetery.

“Lillian passed February 15 1976 of a cerebral vascular accident, probably had a stroke in there shower and fell. Who knows, they probably didn’t bother doing a proper determination. She was that old and in a crappy nursing home, she would have been 75, three months shy of 76.

DNA Testing

“It would be interesting if more of you got tested. That would help. I still got a small percentage of West African, 2%. I have a little bit of German and mostly all British isles. Coon got into the hen house. That made me happy. Maybe I’m related to my grandfather, Robert Pitt, “The Man.”

…

Notes

-1. “Mini” or Wilhelmina Siebel.

Some places I was an outsider and some places I was on the verge of being physically bullied—definitely an outsider. I had a certain amount of leeway, because I was friends with the stoners who had cache with the in group. I didn’t get bullied as much as I was shown contempt. The actual bullying I saw that happened to people was horrifying. There was a guy, Neal, in my high school who writes letters to the editor to this day about what he went through. His facebook page is public and he is still a mess because of what he went through. There were people in my high school who committed suicide for bullying. I was shown contempt from the cool kids, the A-listers. But I was not put through the actual bullying. There was a kid raped with a broomstick at a party and thrown in a closet and just left there.

This was not Baltimore, but Westminster, rural Maryland! This was Westminster high school. There was a girl who was gang raped. She was this really sweet delicate type with white blond hair and it all had to do with a boy she was in love with and thought he loved her and then she shot herself on the hill above the bus stop. It was horrifying, the stuff that went on, and continues to go on, in high school.

When people talk about school shootings, then won’t address the bullying, I’m surprised there aren’t more school shootings. Teachers engage in bullying, allow bullying, encourage bullying, and high schools are horror shows. I won’t say its like a wolf pack, because wolves don’t do this. I’d say it is chimp behavior, hurting other people just for the joy of it. I don’t know what you could do about the problem, there are so many pedos left and right, both male and female, after both males and females, sadists who hate children. There are plenty of good teachers but many horrifying ones to. I don’t know what the system is designed for, weeding out the strong to survive and teaching others of us to keep our heads down and not attract attention?

I remember there was something vaguely wrong with Jimmy, more concern than mean gossip, there were no specifics. Our family wasn’t cruel like that, it was more a note of worry.

Another amusing memory was my Grandmother Alice being appalled that there was a picture of Jimmy sitting on Mary’s couch in his boxers on Christmas morning. Some times they had to argue passively argue about who was more proper through their grandchildren. Your grandmother and I used to butt heads because I would mouth off to her. I wouldn’t give her the proper deference because she was my elder. She could be bitchy and I would give it right back to her.

Once they were all sitting around drinking and my grandmother was crying about her mother and Mary spoke up and said, “Cut it out. She has been dead for years!” My grandmother said, “God dam it Mary, she was my mother and I’ll cry when I want to.”

They would sit and drink and sing the Beer Barrel Polka and the Old Gray Mare. Once she showed me a picture of one of her grandchildren, it was a baby, and said, “Isn’t she beautiful?” and I said, “I don’t know,” you know because baby’s are not always beautiful. Alice said, “Don’t you know he is just trying to antagonize you?”

Then she would do very nice things for me like hem your pants. she just had that ascerbic personality.

My grandparents had a paint stick with Bobby Burns written on it so if you didn’t behave you were going to get spanked with Bobby Burns, the paint stick. But they never physically did it. Oh, fuck, andactual yard stick—not just a ruler! [1]

They were probably trying to make up for the fact that John, my mother’s husband, was beating the crap out of me all the time. That goes into the violence and bullying. There was an aspect of the downward aspect of bulling and I pushed it downward to my brother and two of our cousins. I didn’t physically—but we would pick on Dennis and Jason. I feel bad about both of them—not something I’m particularly proud. Dennis is gone so you can use his real name.

Christine, Johnny and I would gang up and pick on those two whenever we had the chance. At home I would pick on Johnny until he learned to defend himself. One time he shocked me and punched back and that was the end of it.

I wouldn’t take well to the discipline, the group-think or mob situations, even like big concerts where it starts tuning into a mob that is acting as one organism, makes me very uncomfortable.

I also remember visiting you in Pennsylvania and we had just gone to see Kiss and your dad had taken you and wore ear plugs the whole time. I like concerts. I just didn’t like that point in any large group situation where the individual disappears and the group begins to think for itself, individuals doing things because everyone else is, which has caused me problems at work, not so much now.

People don’t realize it but mosh pits have rules and their are expectations of behavior in a mosh pit that people are not expected to be killed and trampled on—rules even there, not just an orgy of violence. I wouldn’t go to a show where there is not assigned seating. I don’t like the whole concept—I hated Amtrak for a long time because of that, because there was no assigned seating and you had to rush. In New York, everyone is trying to figure out where the gate is going to be before it is announced, and run down there and get your seat and your stuff stashed before it got mobbed. Now, at least if you do business class you have an assigned seat. Northeast Regional was a free for all unless you were in business class or Acela.

…

Notes

-1. Grandma Mary Kern kept a yard stick to beat her grandchildren, which she thankfully broke on our cousin Fred. I related this to Michael during his monologue above.

My other great grandfather is buried in the Bronx without a grave marker. I was in New York for a work trip and I wanted to visit his grave. So I checked on the wall, inside, a true necropolis, Saint Raymond’s. When you stand in the middle of it, all you see is tombs and graves. You are in the Bronx and you don’t see any buildings. Imagine how big that place is.

I just realized that two of my great grandfathers died in 1918 in separate bizarre accidents. My one great grandfather, that I was just talking about, Patrick Keenen, was electrocuted repairing an elevator, in Brooklyn in 1918. That is my father’s mother’s father, And then my father’s father’s father was crushed in 1918 by a train in Dallas Texas while working on the railroad. 1918 wasn’t a good year. At least the flu didn’t get him.

The guy who was crushed by the train, Jack Francis Jones, his eldest son was either named Morris or Maurice, and he was involved in the same accident and he died too. That’s what we were told, by a cousin of one of my grandfather’s brother. I semi confirmed that by finding the death certificate of Morris or Maurice, can’t tell which, because it only says M.T. Jones and the mother is Cora Shelby, which is my great grandmother. So it has to be him. I have not been able to find the death certificate for my great grandfather.

[Michael here references census reports he checked.]

My great grandmother Cora then appears at one location listed as a housekeeper. Her son Charlie, the youngest, was listed as a border at a farm. Jack Francis Junior is listed as a hired hand at a farm, and my grandfather is listed as a hired hand at a farm at the tender age of 13! His name is Rex Jones. We know that soon after, he lied about his age and joined the Merchant Marine after the 1930 census, in the early 1930s. This is an interesting coincidence, because my grandfather, Robert Pitt Junior also joined the Merchant Marine. They were both in the Merchant Marine during WWII—a lot of coincidences between my two separate families.

Any questions? I know I went off on a tangent with the paternal family.

I don’t know if you have ever seen this [takes gold framed picture out of cabinet] this is Alice Virginia Seibel, Grandma Jubb. [1] she married, she first married William hood, then she divorced William Hood and married James Jubb, and Lillian, our Great Grandmother Quaid, who you wrote about with her shawl being stolen in the old age home. I remember toddling down the street on Grendon Avenue, where my grandparents lived and Grandma Quaid was chasing me with her walker telling me to come back and I said, “No” and she called me a ‘sassbox.”

That is my only memory of her except as a presence upstairs on Grendon Avenue. Before they put her in an old age home they rotated her among the sisters. I loved that memory, so typical of me being a sass box and am so happy that I have one memory of her. So many pictures I have of her she has a cigarette in a hand.

My grandmother’s mother was Lillian, born Jubb, married Quaid. Her mother was Elizabeth, born Seibel married Jubb. Her mother was Wilhemima Seibel and her husband immigrated from Germany. He had a political appointment as the night watchman of the post office in Baltimore which was announced in the newspaper. Of course being German they were Lutheran. My mother remembers when everyone else was going to the catholic church near the house on McQuin Avenue she went to a Lutheran church even though she married into a catholic family. I am so glad Grandma Quaid did not live to see what a shit hole her neighborhood turned into. [2]

Of course that is that old Catholic church on Old York Road, its in a horrible neighborhood now. I have a hilarious memory of you, that you referenced in one of your blogs, which was confirmed by that blog. You were discussing the fact that as a boy you used to read the TV Guide. You took us for a walk in the woods and showed us your stash of TV Guides! It is such a great memory, because normally, when an older cousin takes a younger cousin out to the woods and shows him a stash of print material, its porn.

The name of the catholic Church is Blessed Sacrament. The building is still there and it is still listed on the archdiocese website, they still have mass on Sunday. It’s probably where my grandmother was baptized. I can’t imagine when your grandmother was baptized, since the great age difference. It still blows my mind that Aunt Mary’s oldest son [my Uncle Fred Kern] was born within a month of her mother’s youngest daughter, Aunt Ann.

[It was at Ann’s funeral, in 2014, when I found out about Michael’s initial research into family history and our discussion about Uncle Robert.]

Mary was born in 1918 [3] and Ann was born in 1936, 18 years later. Grandpa Robert, [the center of this inquiry by the writer], was born in 1918 as well. Mary was born in October at the height of the plague, Mary Lillian, she had her mother’s middle name. [4]

…

Notes

-1. I recall another photo of Grandma Jubb and know her by no other name, often not knowing the first names of older family members.

-2. My clearest memory of Great Grandma Quaid was of her at Aunt Elizabeth Barringer’s house in Waverly, sitting in the dinning room, over the back yard where the big black German shepherd barked at similarly opaque humans waling bye, pointing to a bowl of black licorice candies on the kitchen counter and saying, “Jimmy, bring me some niցցer toes.” I was horrified having just learned about the ‘n’ attribution and being stricken by the idea that our elders ate their candied toes.

-3. My Grandma Mary, Grandma Quaid’s oldest daughter, told me in the late 1990s that her mother had told her that when she gave birth to her in Mercy hospital in 2019, where I was later born, that bodies were stacked in the lobby.

-4. Grandma Quaid’s children, Mary, Elizabeth, Joe, May, Alice and Ann are gone. Fred, Ann’s age, is still with us in Illinois.

Carlo, A long time Myth of the 20th Century Listener, has set up a training session for like minded fellows who wish to be better able to defend their dependents. There, is, no, cost—NONE.

Carlo paid for the time and space, boxing gloves included.

Gloves included

American Gym

Address: 1638 Placentia Ave Suite A, Costa Mesa, CA 92627

The concept of the clinic is to coach novice boxers on ways in which they can better defend themselves, with a focus on variance in size, or catch weight.

If you are a strong man who shows up, you will be coached on defending against evil twerps... and mobs of punks.

If you are a small man who shows, you will be coached on dealing with bully strong men and, also, mobs of punks.

You will all be schooled on using common items to defend against predacious creeps, and, most importantly, on methods for dealing with edged-weapon attacks.

Please bring:

What clothes you normally wear.

A mouth piece.

A pair of gardening or work gloves.

The gym is providing boxing gloves.

The contact exercises will be light, so there is no need for groin protection. We are helping each other out, not beating one another down.

Banjo will hopefully be hitch-hiking from Phoenix to serve as my assistant, upholding the storied martial arts tradition of the dude who could easily kick shit out of the instructor actually pretending to be the victim...!

[Bro, bring the Zen, not the Bren...]

An old crumb can fantasize, right?

I will be bringing my personal weapon training gear.

The Vanilla Gorilla, that is correct, a cold winter blast out of the paleolithic past, has volunteered to bring a pair of sticks and two sets of fencing masks and Easton hockey gloves, for the 4th segment of the training.

Training sections:

-#1: 2:00 to 2:15 Fists, Gloves and Hands in combat

-#2: 2:15 to 3:00 Boxing Sparring Drills

-#3: 3:00 to 3:15 The stick as a self-defense tool

-#4: 3:15 to 3:45 stick boxing, sparring, you hitting this old tramp with a stick.

-#5: 3:45 to 4:00 Defending against edged weapons:

...From the stick-boxing perspective...

...From the boxing perspective...

...By Running, using clothing, and employing furniture...

Carlo, thank you.

[Footnotes belong to the writer’s recollections.]

When Alice, my grandmother passed away I got her box of photos. There were people in photos I did not recognize. For instance there was an Aunt May, that was not our Aunt May, your grandmother’s sister. This made me curious and I went down various rabbit holes.

In 2017, seven years ago, I opened an Ancestry.com account. It’s owned by the Mormons, and you may know that they are obsessed with genealogy. It was kind of a light interest for a while. Then I hit a reference to my grandfather Robert Pitt, had his father listed as black. This one in the Boston area. My grandfather was born in Cambridge, Massachusetts, just across the river. It’s pretty much the same city now.

I’ve been up there for work and I have a friend who lives there in Cambridge. I was there a few weeks ago and we went by the house at 18 Jackson street where my great grandfather lived with his second wife, Helen. In the 1930 census they’re listed as Negro. My great grandfather was at this point saying he was from Spain. In 1940 they were white and passing, census wise; just ten years later but still in the same area. By 1950 my grandfather was then in Baltimore and they were living in Stony Creek at Joe and Helen’s house. Obviously, if he was marrying with my grandmother he was passing white. Although Maryland did not have mescegenation laws.

The first record I have of my grandfather being black is that record. I rightly or wrongly thought, “Aha, that is why my grandparents got married in New York City,” in Grenich Village at a Methodist church, which I have since visited. I assumed it was because New York did not have mescegination laws, but Maryland still did. That may or may not be true. My grandfather was stationed in New York with the Merchant Marine at the time. After that, as more and more documents became available on ancestry, more and more examples of the family’s ancestry, and the true story became available.

The story I was raised being told was that my great grandfather, Robert L. Pitt, was from Spain and was half Spanish and half quote unquote Hindu and had been an orphan who was taken off the streets of a Spanish port by an American ship captain. The truth is he was the son of freed slaves in North Carolina, Ephraim Pitt and Gracie Walston, who got their last names from the neighboring plantations from which they were presumable enslaved in Edgcombe County, North Carolina. He was born in 1883.

My great grandfather was first married to Nancy Pryce, a black woman, in Elizabeth City, North Carolina. He then appears in 1912 in Boston, married to Julia Helen Proskurniak. He puts on that marriage certificate that he is from Havana Cuba. However, in the 1920 census he does indicate that he is from North Carolina with his parents being born in North Carolina. So he wasn’t always good about keeping to his story. [His goal seems to have been] To pass and get in, and it doesn’t always work.

The next reference to Robert L. Pitt was in 1913 in the Boston Globe. He was arrested and charged with assault with intent to kill a peddler, Harry Rosenblatt. He was using a knife and he also assaulted Albert Davis who attempted to step in and stop the assault. He was indicted, he plead guilty and was fined $50 each for the peddler and the concerned citizen. Obviously the archivist for Massachusetts Judicial System had nothing to do that day, so I thank them. We do not have any pictures of Robert L. So I wrote to the Archivist for the two arrests he had. They didn’t have the pictures but did have documents on how the arrests turned out.

Before Robert divorced Helen—Julia Helen went by Helen—Robert got together with Annie, my great Grandmother and they had my grandfather Robert and his brother Joseph, which resulted in them being arrested for adultery and fornication in 1920 and being jailed until the trial, and this was put into the newspaper. This was in Lyn, Massachusetts—all the places they lived were within a stone’s throw of each other.

The interesting thing about this, one of the news articles—there were seven news articles about this, clearly nothing going on in Lyn, Massachusetts. In one of them they mention Robert being colored. Annie is Lithuanian. [Helen was listed as Austrian or Hungarian, from the empire, recently defunct.]

She, Annie, anglicized her name to Annie Morris. But her birth name was Ona Marija Murausks. She is the mother of all of Robert’s children that we know exist. There were nine children, my Grandfather Robert and his siblings. My grandfather was the oldest. He either chose names that were distinctively Latino, like Alphonso, [0] or Emmanuel, or he chose two names that were siblings from North Carolina, like Joseph Elijah or Laura. There was also a Marita. There was an Annie Junior and an Albina named after Annie’s sister. They got screwed a lot in Lithuania. The village she was from was wiped off the map in WWI and is now part of Poland. [1]

He is a fascinating character. He also appeared in the Boston Globe for winning AKC dog shows on the regional level. So he had to pass [racially]. He didn’t keep at it for very long. He sold a lot of dogs, before and after. He had a prize winning bitch and a prize winning stud, they were bull terriers the ancestors of pit bulls, how appropriate for a criminal. He also dabbled in real estate. He bought property through bankruptcy auctions I found records of. He bread and sold other types of livestock, I found adds for baby pigs.

He owned a cafe in Augusta Maine after he and Annie split—after he left them basically, the Marvel Cafe. I know that my Grandparents together, Alice and Robert visited him, because I found two photographs that say: “Pa’s Pigs” and “Pa’s Farm,” from when my grandparents went on a late honey moon road trip through Maine and Canada, but no picture of him for some reason. Did they just drive by and didn’t stop and talk to him?

She, Annie filed for divorce on the grounds of abuse, from which I understand is putting it mildly. He abused her, abused the kids, horrible, horrible person. Then there is a whole bunch of adds in Maine from newspapers, he is trying to recruit ex-servicemen to sell something for him, perhaps an early multi-level marketing scheme:

“Wanted X-servicemen with car to handle my new silver emplating liquid, sells on demonstration $10 up made per day if you are a salesman. Right Robert Pitt, Gardiner, Maine.”

There are multiple such adds. He was entrepreneurial, always on the make—he had hustle.

Then in 1952, he changed his name to Robert Brissette and soon after moved to California. My mother told me he had some legal trouble, but that might not be a reliable source—but, considering his background that could be accurate. He’s 61 in 1955. the first thing I find on him in California, I find in the Pomona Progress Bulletin, 21st, June, 1955, Robert Brissette, 61 of 835 Mission Boulevard was picked up by Sheriff’s officers at a residence on south Fern Street, north of Walnut Street and booked at chino police headquarters at 7:07.

Then in December of 1955:

“Ontario man at home following operation—this is him, the kind of shit they published—Robert Brissette, 61, 1300 east [?] Street, Ontario is recuperating at home following an operation recently at San Bernadino, County Hospital. He will not be able to return to his work as a junk dealer for the next three months. He required a blood transfusion during surgery for stomach ulcers. Two pints are needed at the blood bank of San Bernadino and Riverside County, National Orange Show, to replace this blood.”

Then, finally, he dies and the last thing I found is he dies in September 1962. Laura’s daughter Diane sent me—she has, his death certificate. What happened then is he had gone to the hospital and when he was released he had a heart attack while he was driving and crashed into a tree and that killed him. By then he was spelling his last name with a z instead of the s’s in the middle.

We are sure it is him because my grandfather signed his death certificate. It is his name and I recognize the signature anywhere.

I called the cemetery listed in the death certificate and asked if they could send a picture of his marker and it turned out that he does not have a marker. So the nice lady went out to where he is buried, which is just an unmarked plot in the cemetery and took a picture of the grass and sent me a picture and a few clipping from the obituary and this news article they had from way back when which was very nice for them to do.

Someday I will apply to have a marker put there. I don’t think anyone should be put in the ground without a marker, for historical purposes and respect.

…

Notes

-0. My mother told me when I was a youth that Alphonso was as handsome as Robert Junior was athletic.

-1. The Crusades against Lithuania lasted from the 1100s thru the 1400s, possibly impressing some Latin names in the area.

As Discussed at His Table with a Tramp Biographer

…

Copyright 2024 James LaFond

The Writer to limit publication to site posts and paperback proofs assigned to his grandchildren

Hardback, E-book, Audio, Video, Animated Rights Reserved for the Subject

…

Dust Cover

A tramp writer unable to extricate himself from the study of forgotten and ignored working Americans, was contacted in July 2024, by his younger cousin, Michael, grandson of the writer’s favorite uncle and sweetest aunt. A good decade since they last attended a funeral together, the homeless author arrived at his cousin’s Baltimore County house for coffee. A comparison of life experiences, such as living as a pedestrian in Baltimore City, the place that had driven them and their entire extended family to the hills of Maryland and beyond, gave way to Michael’s vivid recollection of his search into his family’s ancestry, a search that overlapped with the writer’s reluctant and compulsive exhumation of the fabled American Dream.

…

Extended Dust Cover

The writer recalled Michael as a soft spoken, mild mannered cousin who stayed at the periphery of family gatherings, often held at his Grandparent’s house in Hamilton, Baltimore City. Looking at his cousin’s thoughtfully appointed and nearly spartan house, seeing the numerous pictures of ancestors on display, especially hearing the considerate cadence of his once soft voice now filled with the grit of life, the writer could not shake the thought that in Michael, Uncle Robert, the fiercest mind of their family, lived on, beyond he two coffee cups on the dining room table.

Michael demonstrated an encyclopedic knowledge of the family that the writer had never considered as worth a thought. In a way, Michael and the writer were both strangers at the table of life, men who stayed to its margins rather than seeking its stage. Turning and looking at a picture of strident Uncle Robert and sweet Aunt Alice, whom had served him more closely as life guides than modern grandparents usually do, the grit in Michael’s strong voice faded away, showing his age to be nearly as advanced as the broken down writer, and he spoke like a shadow of his younger self, “I miss them so much,” and sadly spread his left hand near his empty coffee cup.

At that point in family decline the wayward writer decided, and blurted, “Could I interview you about your ancestry research, you speak in a cadence that is easy to follow and should gel with my limited typing?”

“Sure,” Michael smiled his eyes looking too much like windows of loss for the bum of a writer who turned his back on the same family, to welsh on. [0]

I Miss Them So is an oral memoir of one man’s plumbing of his family’s well; of the why and the how that helped him grasp the who and the what of our ever erasing passage through time.

Inspirational Quote

“The Quaids are tough to research. They each had so many kids its like tracing… this one has twelve, than that one has ten… Its a mess.

-Michael by phone to the writer in Utah, August 2024

“For the Kearns your mother is the source. She has the oldest pictures, the memories. We got together for a picture party out at her place. She recalls a lot. You should interview her about the Kearns.”

-Michael, at his table, Friday, October 27, 2024

…

Writer’s Notes

I cannot name my person as the “author” of this book. I am merely asking questions of the only authority on our family history, my father’s side mostly blank and forgotten and my mother’s more numerous side I have entirely neglected. The book will be listed as coauthored by Michael and myself. Today, I sit at the table of the matriarch of another Baltimore family, driven by our replacements out of East Baltimore and into the East Baltimore County barrio, where she resides as a respected relic among the teaming Latinos who have replaced our replacements. Two widows live here and welcome me for company at their table where I write and eat in return for chores and an escort to the supermarket. When Jojo, my long time lady friend, heads to work at 7:00 AM, I will accompany her and take a divergent bus route to Michael’s pleasant house. This feels like something of a prodigal pilgrimage, my face a little warm with pride that Michael is accepting my aid with this many-hearted thing so close to his heart, a heart I sense is guarded.

…

About the Author

Impressions for the reader to better appreciate the telling of what is then written within.

Michael and I met perhaps a dozen times in our youth. He was a nice quiet, round-headed boy with straight black hair of a feathery texture. As an adult, I had a nice conversation in about 1989 with him concerning his college education and my weird artist ambitions, he being the only family member I could discuss my writing urge with without being laughed at. I was his senior by age, but he was more grounded. Beginning in 1990 my life descended into chaos, working many jobs for many hours, battling our replacements as I traveled back and forth to work at night in Baltimore City. In the last twenty years, I maybe saw Michael twice at funerals. I missed the funerals of almost all of our elders, nothing but a creature of work. Michael told me at one funeral that he had worked in India and liked it a lot. That is all I know about the kid cousin who is only five or six years younger than I and has the face of a man who has thought a lot about our human lot. I do note that his new house has many similarities to the house he grew up in, especially the above ground pool he recently had installed.

As a boy and punk I recall that Michael and his brother, lived upstairs in the loft of a Hamilton single home. That stairwell came down to the kitchen in the back of the house. It was a place of mystery to me, a protective nest for Michael’s mother, whose name I do not know how to spell. Indeed, I might be misspelling his. He can correct this in his edition. I chose to keep my ignorance of my own family on display.

Uncle Robert and Aunt Alice had a daughter who was a single mother. I always got the sense of warded protection radiating from my favorite uncle and sweetest aunt towards their daughter and grandsons, who lived upstairs from the kitchen.

Michael had a brother, whose name might have been Johnny, of whom I do not even know if he is alive. Johnny was a younger boy, thinner of form and face, who I always thought was going to be in trouble as an adult. He seemed like a scrappy kid, the kind of kid I would have liked to be.

My time at Uncle Robert’s house was, as a boy, youth and adult, decided on by my mother and later my wife, if I had time away from work. The time spent there was always focused on Uncle Robert first, who was involved in smelting precious metals in a basement furnace. Of second importance was Uncle Bernie, the rowdy bear hunter, married to my sweet Aunt Ann, her and Alice being the mildest mannered of five Quaid sisters, and on Uncle Bill, a man who always wore a suit and insisted on walking to Robert’s, through increasingly terrible neighborhoods. Aunt Alice held the family Easter Egg hunt for the children, which my eldest son was able to attend.

I relate below the story that brought Michael’s family search together with my writing.

I stood next to Uncle Bill whose beer’s I got from the fridge, which he would let me sip from. I think I was 11or 12. I was watching men, seeing how they acted, eager to leave the dependent boy life behind. My Grandfather, Fred Kearn, a real solid guy, and I think the eldest, sat at the head of Robert’s dining room table, back to the kitchen. The table was of lighter make than the others in our family. The women were in the sitting room, a kind of alcove to the left of the main room.

The conversation turned to society and Bernie said that all of the blacks should be made to swim back to Africa, with a Jew under one arm and an Italian under the other, dropping them off in their respective nations. Being a map nerd, I was suspect of Bernie’s geography. Then he apologized to Robert, hugging him with one arm, and saying, “No offense.”

Robert grinned, perhaps in agreement.

On the way home, as I sat in the back seat of the family sedan, I asked something like, “Mom, is Uncle Robert Italian, Jewish or…”

Mom took a great mental side step and said, “I’ll tell you what my mother told us.”

The rest I have to paraphrase, as I have written it before, and when I do so I tend to forget. Indeed, I write largely to forget what I write, as a purge of a crowded mind. Uncle Robert was in the Merchant Marine in the Pacific when his ship was sunk by a Jap sub. He was adrift in a life boat and there earned his bronze skin via a sunburn that never went away!

That is all I know of Michael’s side of the family, except that I saw Uncle Robert free a rabbit caught in a fence once, and that he once argued with my mother that corporate agriculture was poisoning Americans, her arguing the establishment line.

-James LaFond, Colgate & Eastpoint, MD, 10/19/24

Pre Script

My intent is a living document of conversation, preserving Michael’s answers to my unrecorded questions and prompts, in the order related, imposing no structure other than curiosity on Cousin Michael, my kind host at coffee.

…

Notes

-0. I am confident that no one in my family is of Welsh ancestry, so here use the English insult.

“The naivety among highly educated people is something I took for granted for most of my life as a matter of personal nature or of a focus in a specialized field. It I something that has always been more pronounced in Anglo-Americans, particularly in regard to race. Socially insulated Asians have always understood that there is something very different about darker races and that these people will attack you physically. Latinos, of all races and social classes, also recognize such realities and behave accordingly. But the Anglo-American is so blind to simple behavioral realities, and so much more blind the more educated a person is, I wonder if there is a connection between this idea of unique Anglo-American virtues that DO NOT EXIST and the utter banality of our society-wide misconceptions. As a Hispanic person it has been clear to me since childhood that there is something especially gullible, even retarded, about the mainstream American viewpoint. Can you, with your narrative sense, place a finger on the keys that have so thoroughly mislead a nation of fairly brilliant people. It is no small thing for a handful of neglected and abused British government and corporate agents to take a shit hole country like India and make it function well enough to export middle management persons around the world. Yet these same people believe that the policeman is your friend, taxation is a voluntary act and that a negro is no more likely to rape and murder you than a person from Japan.”

-Lynn, from an editorial call.

…

First, a quote from Antiquity’s most insightful historian:

“In these circumstances they did what most of us do and being ignorant of the truth, persuaded themselves into believing what they wished to believe.”

-Arrian, from Alexander the Great

In the case above, Arrian is describing how some international conspirators convinced the democracy of Thebes to vote for their own extinction by revolting against the very power who had already crushed them in war, was currently crushing all numerous other revolts, and had shown benevolence in victory to all, except to rebels. Thebes committed such a manic act of suicide, that the extermination of this entire people, and the sale of the women and children into slavery, shocked even their ages old enemies with “a thrill of terror.” It would be resolved in the minds of their friends and enemies alike as an expression of “The Wrath of God,” stemming from the numerous sins of this arrogant people, to include a jealous thirst for genocide. The willing self-assisted genocide complete, the very nameless conspirators whose agents convinced the most powerful state in Greece to act on behalf of its own extinction, were there to “dispose” of the captives and their possessions, to feed this people into the ledgers the international money power as completely as a furnace would burn so much coal.

Historians then, to include Arrian, who demonstrates a genuine fear of the shadowy bankers that ruled his boss, Hadrian, to include Victor Davis Hansen, best historian of our age, all look away from the mechanics of the great play of man. Our established inquirers are permitted to examine that actors and the script.. Absent from their inspection are the writers, producers, directors, editors, casting agents, gaffers, stuntmen and fixers, along with an army of other functionaries necessary to propel the movie of reality forward. Our best historians discuss our past, as our reporters do the present, with the feigned innocence of some stone age savage who might be shown a movie and believe it is a dance of gods reflected in the mirror of Heaven and that the hundreds credited agents scrolling at the end of the movie are so many tears for the departed—and perhaps they are.

Below are some sign posts, collected chronologically, in the staircase of lies that has brought humanity up out of memory into the rarefied heights of absolute, amnesiac, ignorance:

50 B.C. to A.D. 200

Rome made a desert and called it peace.

…

A.D. 325

Christendom rose to governance over Rome and declared all that came before to have been a lie.

…

A.D. 750-1200

The idea that honor is a civilized notion, that grew out of domestic living, despite its pastoral barbarian origin, takes hold as Heathenry is swallowed almost whole by Christendom.

…

A.D. 1215

The Magna Carta demoted God from judge to witness and bared the king on earth from protecting orphans and widows from creditors.

…

A.D. 1337 to 1453

The Norman Kings ruling polyglot England, feuding with their fellow French relations across the channel, began promoting the fantasy that England was “Anglo-Saxon.”

…

A.D. 1453

The fall of Constantinople, Shield of Eastern Christendom, to Muslims is facilitated by Christian Italians, Germans, and numerous other Christian races.

A.D. 1453 - 1618

The notion that Christendom does not physically exist, is replaced by the idea that Europe, which is a fantastical construct with zero geographical reality supporting it, does exist like beating heart of Christian virtue and material progress.

A.D. 1648 – 1860

European and American Christians cease describing themselves first as Christians and then according to nations, and instead describe themselves as “white” first, with this odd notion as superior to one’s nation as Christian identity had been before. There is zero recorded uses of the term white as a racial noun employed before the Dutch Ora Linda book circa 1200, with no common use of this term until after 1730.

…

A.D. 1865 - 1948

The hundreds of millions of slaves born and broken in bondage across the great swath of human life are posthumously emancipated and declared to have willingly worn their chains, with the soul exception of Sub-Saharan Africans recently owned by “whites.” The erasure of nearly all of human experience in a single century of historical omission and word replacement was like a comet strike upon the planetary mind.

…

A.D. 1900 – 1958

The codification of propaganda doctrine and its amplification in narrative moralization, news fabrication, editorial distortion and advertising deception via movies, radio and TV, completely captured the mass mind.

…

A.D. 1960s to 90s

The definitions of B.C. for Before Christ and of A.D. for In the Year of Our Lord, being changed to B.C.E. Before Common Era and C.E. Common Era, is a lie so big that it frames all human existence in falsehood. That historians went along with this in order to continue having works published, sent a chill of realization into my soul, that the battle for the human mind had, by 1998, been won by the Agents of Darkness.

…

2001

An obvious attack upon the American people by USG, is believed by virtually all Americans to have been conducted by a handful of Arab playboys based in a landlocked and impoverished Arуan nation. The resulting measures codified thought and speech as crime and initiated a generation of domestic terror news coverage that was mostly fabricated, culminating in the partial lobotomy of the American mind in 2016, followed by the final loss of public sanity and replacement of consciousness with a USG induced dream state in 2020.

Those, Dear Lady, are the steps I see in the Staircase to Elevated Deception, that has forever blinded this iteration of humanity until Heaven smites this lie- festering earth. And makes way for truth again.

Oh, I forgot: Rainbow Ponies grazing upon Big Rock Candy Mountain!

MAN WEEKEND 2025

     Arrival: Thursday night after dinner

     Friday: Training

     Saturday: Fight Day

     Sunday: Leave before noon

Those unsure about what this is, please look at the Modern Agonistics videos or read Brick Mouse Speaks, that should clue you in. Man Weekend is free and open to our greater community, a good place to show up and train (and fight!) for newbies and experienced fighters alike. All ranges combat: grappling, boxing, MMA, weapons. Contact Sean Glass or James LaFond for particulars (location).

Any updates will be posted here.

“I really did not understand your affinity with the urban blight matrix that most of us believed was a social malfunction, until you convinced me through your writing that the crime that was given peak expression in the Baltimore Riots was an outcome of a desired social function. The chill that I felt when I finally realized that we are ruled by evil people, who mix and match violent idiots with peacefully productive people to enhance and maintain control, is one of the reasons why I began reading fiction again, your fiction. You were the only social commentator that was making accurate predictions and also lived those conditions. I suspected that this had to do with you writing fiction and nonfiction, so began reading Reverent Chandler when you were serializing it on the site. Since then I have noticed that my girls, who have read a large quantity of fiction appropriate to their age, and even have ongoing fictional story lines that they develop, complete with paper wardrobes for their characters, have a natural grasp of adult behavior where their peers seem to be clueless.

-Lynn, from an editorial call, in fact a writing assignment

…

Dear Lady, lets begin with a quote from an ancient man from an age when poetry and science coexisted in the same minds:

“To inquiry into the structure of the plot…”

“The instinct of imitation is implanted in man from childhood…”

Aristotle defines poetry as various means of imitation, of men as they are, better than they are, worse than they are, and of their actions. Once dialogue had been brought into tragedy, Aristotle assures us that “nature herself,” took a hand in the process of imitative morality in representing the acts of characters of “a higher type.”

“It is not the function of the poet to relate what has happened, but what may happen, to relate the possible… the poet and the historian differ, not by writing in prose or verse. The work of Herodotus might be put into verse and it would still be a species of history… The true difference is that one relates what has happened, the other what may happen. Poetry therefore is a more philosophical and a higher thing than history. Poetry tends to express the universal, history the particular. By the universal I mean how a person of a certain type will speak or act… he is a poet because he imitates, and what he imitates are actions…”

-On Poetics

If we here take the greatest know scientist of Antiquity at his word in this serious work On Poetry, then we discard the poetic arts, known today as fiction, at great peril. After listening to this book many times, a few years ago, I finally understood the phenomenon of the impractical and naive person of high intelligence and elevated education. Having no sense for how people of various sorts act and interact is to put one’s self in a perilous social position.

I have noticed that the quality of fiction improved and gained greater currency in the 1800s and early 1900s and has declined steadily since the codification of propaganda doctrine in 1928, by Edward Bernays. I suspect that creative writing has increasingly found greater monetary rewards for advertising, for mind control, for the induction of the reader or listener or viewer into a state of artificial need and vulnerability, of a perceived peril or want. Once such a person has been reduced to need, hunger, thirst, sadness, want, or coaxed into hysteria, anger or belief, the influencing party may profit from fulfilling that need or desire. Today publishers no longer refer to what I do as a writer as writing. I am no longer a writer, but an “influencer;” a mere lesser species of the type, clinging to the old outmoded form of the word, once sacred to men of thought, now a lubricant used to intoxicate those minds to be bought. These processes might not be entirely designed, and may in part be convergent, such as enforced or cultivated loneliness increasing the opportunity for the sale of porn, drugs, hope and hate.

When I first began writing and sought a printer through the Small Business Administration, to publish a game, my mentor spent a half hour explaining why I should publish a book that would fall apart as early as possible, ideally after the first read, in order to assure the sale of future print runs. The entire role playing game business model was built on designed obsolescence and the need for more rules to fix poor rules to power sales.

I think that the current system agenda is to nullify our very instinct to seek the truth or to be waiting with lies positioned in those corners where a truth seeker is likely to go looking for answers to the lies he has been inundated with.

I have noted that increased desire for authentic fiction, to write it and read it, has come in bursts that follow massive propaganda:

American Civil War

1870s

Spanish American War

1900s

The Great War

1920s & 30s

The Greater War

1950s & 60s

Not so after the end of the Cold War, when poetic dearth deepened, or now after the commencement of the never ending War on Terror. There was been a system correction. State agencies and media [banking] agencies now employ the most talented writers to craft daily fiction for the masses and predict future social conditions.

The structured fabrication of American history as a web of lies supported by a pillar of omission in the late 1800s and early 1900s saw a great expansion of popular working class fiction. This was a subconscious instinct to counter the thought crimes of newspapers, which traffic in the lie daily, beaming perpetually renewed gaslight into our mind’s eye. I read this as an instinctive reaction of the hands-on person to the obvious fabrication of a false national foundation. Distrust of the upper class histories that told a descendant of a slave that his forefathers could not be slaves for a slave could not be the same race as his master, at the very time that the worker’s boss was doing everything in his power to enslave him, drove both escapist and speculative fiction.

After WWI propaganda and advertising took over the mass mind and the best speculative writers went to work largely in unpopular seclusion, to be discovered by later propagandized generations.

The mainstream of fictional refuge for the rational mind has been mined ahead of the seeker in the form of movie and TV, shaping the mass mind into an irrational yet notional beast, forever insecure and afraid. The burgeoning “Mental Health” mind control clinics and the booming “Public Safety” corporate goon barracks are named according to the lie, their very identity, such as the War Department being changed to the Department of Defense, a product of mass mind creation, to shape the public into the thing that perfectly fits the hand that wields it.

Currently, the speculative fiction field for this past generation, has been quite barren. I think this is due to those creative minds attuned to social futurism, to what was in a faith-based age described as prophecy, having been captured by the system to work internal to it. An example is Greg Bear, once the very best hard science fiction near future author, going to work for a federal law enforcement agency as their very own house novelist!

It is a curious aspect of our age that so few people understand how power works, that most people deny the existence of the basic method of social domination that has been the key to our oppression, suppression, inspection and deception: Conspiracy.

To even consider the notion of conspiracy, that one or more parties would cooperate for their own mutual benefit at the expense of one or more other parties, is tantamount to a confession of insanity.

I suggest here that one of the keys to this odd human devolution is the taking away of our story, to include our sense for a truthful story.

As an antidote try reading the fiction of:

Jack London

Edgar Rice Burroughs

Harold Lamb

C. S. Lewis

Robert E. Howard

J.R.R. Tolkien

Phillip K. Dick

Poul Anderson

Gene Wolfe

Then, look at the world anew and see it filled with ten lies for every truth.

“Recently one of the Red Scare girls made it big and sat in on a Fox News round table. In addressing the government program of population replacement, she side-stepped that glaring fact and said that the reason why bringing 10,000 Haitians into a small Ohio town is not a good idea, is that these immigrants do not share the Anglo-Saxon sense of honor and fair play. Right before the panel is the example of an Anglo-American factory owner with 30 jobs, who he wants to go to people who will except lower wages. All he cares about is the lowest wages for his 30 workers and accepts no responsibility for the 10,000 unemployed Haitians or the damage done to his community by soaring rental rates. It is astonishing to me that Americans see the entire Anglo-Saxon experience as an extension of a hallowed antiquity that these people did not share with the Ancients in any case, and, while ignoring most of American history, place a backdrop of fair play behind the greatest empire the world has ever seen. Of course, any understanding of empire will teach that an empire cannot abide by standards of honor and fair play, that it must be a lowest common denominator consumption machine. Before getting into why the Anglo-American delusion is so persistent, perhaps you could give some examples of Anglo-Saxon honor and fair play.”

-Lynn, in an editorial call

…

I am off line writing this so dates are put of my head.

Actual Anglo-Saxons, kind of existed in 1066, ruling over Gaelic, Britano-Roman and even Jutish remnants. Britain was and is an invasion destination, a place where dozens of refugee and pirate nations piled up upon and against one another.

At Stanford Bridge a Viking berserker held off the entire Anglo-Saxon army on his own, on a foot bridge, until an honorable Anglo snuck under the bridge and stabbed him in the balls, most fairly and with little play.

An hour later, Harald Hadrata was cutting through the same army of honor and fair play who could not stand against this single man. So some archer shot him in the throat.

Days later, William the Conqueror, challenged this same army of honor and fair play and was bested at Hastings until, one of his archers shot King Harold Godwinson in the eye!

England was now Norman, with the Anglo-Saxon elements thoroughly crushed into peasantry and slavery.

In Norman England, the vile Magna Carta was drafted in 1215. This takeover of church and king by banking interests, demoted God from judge to witness, and then took away the King’s duty to protect the widows and orphans of his deceased loyalist knights from the soul driving bankers. This document set the lie in motion that blinds us to this day. [1]

Calling England Anglo-Saxon was not a habit in the roughly 200 years when the rulers spoke French. This lie was adopted in the 100 Years War in order to encourage the longbow using peasants, renamed “Yeoman” to follow their kings to war in France.

1380s: Wat Tyler’s daughter was raped by a tax collector. He and other peasants rose up and defeated church and state forces. When Wat met with the boy King to swear loyalty under new terms, he was murdered.

I am skipping hundreds of years of skulldugery here.

1570 or so: After a battle lost to a Spanish fleet off Vera Cruz, Francis Drake threw his commander, John Hawkins “under the bus,” and became the Queen’s new favorite sea dog.

1585 thru 1609: Conspirators working for the Virginia Company, to include Drake, Captain’s Lane, John Smith and a Portuguese Pilot, conspire to maroon John White’s settlers bound for the Chesapeake on Roanoke Island, leaving them to the mercy of Spanish and Indians they had recently attacked. This was so that Sir Walter Riliegh would lose his deed to Virginia, which he did, along with his head.

1588: the best fighting captain of England, Sir Richard Grenville was made to sit at anchor in Bristol Harbor with his 51 ships, to prevent him from winning fame in battle and redeeming the cause of Rileigh. Grenville would take his flagship, at a later date, out against a Spanish fleet, as a sign of protest against the entirely absent sense of honor and far play among the Norman-British ruling elites.

1675-6:

The Wompanoag tribe rose up against the English for cheating, raping and land fraud, and the imposition of gun control.

13 Susquehannock allies of England are murdered by a planter in Virginia.

100 Susquehannock warriors battle an 800 man Maryland and Virginia army to a draw and are invited to parlay. The English murder the chiefs, and still lose the next battle.

The surviving Susquenhannock’s settle in North Carolina, where the English employ another tribe to befriend and then murder them. The English then murder their own allies!

Bacon and his murderers are compelled to revolt, and do defeat the governor, because the few newly freed men, are prevented from land owning and voting, and are employed as militia. This only tool, musket and sword, they turn on their masters. The last act of this war, sees an unbeatable force of mixed African and European rebels agree to quite fighting in return for passage across a river to freedom. The English captain who made this deal, revoked it and put the men back in chains.

1678: the remaining garrison of the kings soldiers brought to Virginia to quell the revolt are abandoned to starvation.

Samuel Wisemen, keeper of the book of record for the king’s agents, was not paid for his work, and seems to have perished of want.

1685-1740: Anglo-American Planters brought in some 300,000 Africans, at great expense, at 4 times the cost of as many Europeans, in order to establish a breeding population of captive labor that would prevent those few small land holders on the margins of the great plantations from bootstrapping their way into competition. Free work by day and crime by night to drive away neighbors was the reason why the African American came to exist. The corrupt lack of honor and fair play in the so called Anglo mind is so powerful that it trumps race and faith!

I am skipping the 13 books of evidence that I massed in the Plantation America series as to the fraudulent nature of the unpaid labor scheme used to build America, which is fraudulently depicted by posthumous slander upon our ancestral dead to this dastard day.

1750s: The tribes paid to defend the planters of Pennsylvania, mostly revolt and go into service with the French in the Seven Years War, due the cheating, rum- dealing, land-stealing, enslavement and raping committed under English law.

From the 1750s, thru the 1890s, British agents and later American legislators will abrogate scores of treaties with many tribes, for no other reason than gain, respecting not the honor of their own nation or the word of their forefathers.

Daniel Boone and Simon Kenton, the two greatest frontiersmen to break the grip of the British Empire by exploring and settling among British client tribes over the Appalachian divide, are cheated of their land claims and pushed into poverty by Anglo-American lawyers. Boone will move all the way to Missouri and would hunt as far as Idaho in his 60s and 70s simply to outrun the rapacious agents of Anglo-America, the cheats that follow every brave and honorable enterprise with graft and corruption.

The works of Charles Dickens amply illustrate the SEVERE absence of honor and fair play intrinsic to the Anglo-American social machine. This evil is so deep and so blithely veiled, that it does not occur to the idiot American mind herd, that what this machine needs in times of unrest is a savage servant, not a civic soul.

Lynn, I could go on and on, and skipped quite a many things, such as the desertion of the Shawnee by their Anglo allies in 1813, the capture of the Seminole Chief Oceola under a flag of truce, the government persecution of Lewis Wetzel for continuing his feud with the Shawnee, the use of Lakota warrior in American pay to slaughter the women and children of Black Hawk’s Sauk tribe, the death by starvation of the British sailors who had defeated the French Revolution from 1805-15, in the coldest year on record, 1816, the failure to pay and care for American veterans of WWI, the betrayal, persecution, desertion and mass opiate addiction of American veterans of Vietnam, Iraq and Afghanistan.

Lynn, no empire may be maintained through honorable means so long as its life blood is money, which is power utterly, even necessarily, removed from morality.

…

Notes

-1. The Lies that Bind Us