Editor’s Note: Marlow is concerned this morning. I share his sentiments at least in part, since I have family. members who may be in the process of violating the new COVID restrictions on Thanksgiving celebrations in a western state. I debated this morning about running the Swamp Postcard of this strange week, but I am going to defer to Marlow’s opinion on the impact of new social restrictions in his part of the country. Attorney Sid Powell, formerly attorney for General Mike Flynn, has joined the Trump legal team and announced that she was “turning the Kraken loose.” I have not seen any of them in the front or back pastures, and so far the week has been quiet. Was the Kraken the accusations against Dominion Voting Services software? If so, the muff seems to be on it as effectively as the one on Hunter Biden’s laptop. The current President is staying home for Thanksgiving and has fired the SECDEF and the DHS infrastructure protection officials. The latter seems to have been discharged for their statements regarding election integrity. The former’s exclusion from evidence collection in Germany is part of it? Something big looming we have not seen yet? Nothing but fun! Gobble gobble!

– Vic

Plague Year Minutiae

Author’s note: We spent months in this morgue-like city, making time maps of it during the virus. Where the second-hand bookstore was across from the old cemetery. What did the empty streets we walked look like yesterday a week ago? A year ago? What store, what building, was there wasn’t there now? What was the weather? What tunes were on the cable TV jukebox music channels? Precarious streets of yesterday recreated piece by piece in fading memories and words, old photos, newspaper article clippings and old tunes. We were learning to think and talk backwards. Day after day we watched these old flickerings in silence.

The following fragmentary sentences and paragraphs had been virus this summer’s times thought-bits and shards that were scattered about as Word files in my laptop document folders. This is a quick-and-dirty, battlefield aid station stitch-together of them.

Please excuse the typos in word and thought.

-Marlow
——-

We do not yet have what some might call “emotional oxygen” in America’s atmosphere. The true medium in which humans breathe is not in soulless places — those carbon dioxide rich, colorless streets under white-hot blue skies atop concrete cities overseen by the high-towered and powered monied whose noses are buried in their digital brokerage statements and political polls with plus or minus 5% margins of error.

The most agile of the monied class preserve their advantage through deep data diving analytics services. The only forms of assistance available to the rest of us — insect people, one and all — are the intricate bureaucracy and its impenetrable arcane processes loosely wired to the US Constitution and US Code. Lotsa luck with that my fellow bugmen.

Others say that this is complicated for us bugs by a devious inside-the government underground operating through misdirection and camouflage.

It is said that these partisans make recordings and scrawlings, leaving them to be discovered and acted upon up by the nation’s newly elected controllers. Largely this underground is made up of adventurers who intend to outthink, outlast and displace the currently elected. There has never been a true revolution in reaction to this.

Will the coming post-election purges be constant — toppled regulations destroyed in the ovens to be replaced with others faster, sharper and similar to total political weapons?

The principal weapon of politicians is of course heat, not light. In the center of their most beloved coastal cities stand the ovens where those things that displease the controllers are brought for total disposal. I often imagine these furnaces as conical structures of shimmering heat from the earth’s molten core where lead and human goodness melt at high noon.

No living things can survive around these ovens. Only the condemned are brought to their disposal hearth grates. The ovens are cooked-crustacean red with heat. Men who approach them blink their eyes as their orbs turn summer-orange hot. They wince and recoil upon contact with oven’s heat waves, sometimes mutating in their last moments as they breathe in their last emotions.

To locate these destroyers, you must walk past areas of dank bars, tattoo parlors and sexual pleasure dens near our nation’s Capitol.

——-

2020’s most dangerous virus wasn’t from Asia. It wasn’t a novel one either.

It was a virus of rage, hate, fear, and ugliness swirling around us waiting to wear us Marks and Rubes down to a point where it immediately penetrated our souls as if we in seeking redemption were begging forgiveness for some ugly, noxious or disgusting acts that were indelibly memorialized in photographs and recorded social media words.

If these ephemera were allowed to go without vetting, they would become our virus-time’s rap and charge sheets eternally presented and represented before all other’s screens to produce further guilty judgements of our other quite noxious viral thoughts and acts that would go round and round us like an invisible hail storm bringing down more rage, hate and ugliness upon our words, images, thoughts and acts.

What did this virus do wherever it gained traction?

It started eating.

And what did it do with what it ate?

It made exact copies of itself that started eating to make more copies that started eating to make more copies and so forth to the virus power. The fear and hate virus slowly replaced its host with virus copies. Its code-programmed goal was compliant, empty minds, souls and bodies

(THEY DON’T CARE NOR WANT TO HEAR ABOUT OUR SUFFERING OR OUR WHINING, WHIMPERING HUMAN SHIT. OF COURSE, WE SUFFER BECAUSE WE WONT TURN LOOSE OF OUR STUPID MORE US FORMULA.)

It was like a vast tapeworm that brought down contrary words and images moving through one’s mind. It was the perfect way to make someone feel and look stupid.

You may also have noticed that something is sucking all the flavor out of your food, the pleasure out of sex, and the color out of everything in sight. Precisely creating such a low-pressure area leads to a world that feels like it sucks to the 13th power.

It was a perfect, long, Reverse Con.

In 2020 America’s political con artists don’t sell their products to the voters, they sell the “consumer” to their products/candidates. They do not improve and simplify the merchandise. They degrade and simplify the voters. Sorta like heroin dealers’ schtick, where it’s not the con’s intensity but the duration of marks’ pain/want/need that breaks the voters’ will to resist the sale.

The 2020 election-week nights were like watching a junky catching a hot shot. Most never could or would pull the needle out anyways with the dose hitting them so hard and fast. The losers’ look in their dead eyes was “tasty” said more than a few of the gloating winners. The survivors/winners awoke each morning thereafter to strange metal tastes in their mouths as they twisted from the beds to light another smoke. Just like the losers they’ll never see what’s coming until it’s half past too late.

With the plague still killing jobs and small businesses, the election 2020 candidate billboards down the street from us are left without good paying replacement ads — pealing and flapping with the promised bright future colors draining off leaving only dull greys and off-toned sepias given the stronger than normal, late fall and early winter sunshine.

Our food banks are running low on foodstuffs with the demand streaking into the stratosphere. Will they open the zoo for hunting season?

——-

On behalf of the owners of COVID closed/restricted small businesses and the out-of-work&unemployment-benefits working class, let’s end this piece with a tune from we the people for the deaf, dumb and blind folks on Capitol Hill:

Once I built a nation, I made its machines run
Made them outrace Einstein’s time
Once I built a railroad, now it’s done
Brother, can you spare a dime?

Once I built a tower up to the sun
Brick and rivet and lime
Once I built a tower, now it’s done
Brother, can you spare a dime?

Once in khaki suits, gee we looked swell
Full of that yankee doodly dum
Half a million boots went sloggin’ through hell
And I was the kid with the drum

Say, don’t you remember, they called me Al
It was Al all the time
Why don’t you remember, I’m your pal
Say buddy, can you spare a dime?

Once in khaki suits, ah gee we looked swell
Full of that yankee doodly dum
Half a million boots went sloggin’ through hell
And I was the kid with the drum

Oh, say, don’t you remember, they called me Al
It was Al all the time
Say, don’t you remember, I’m your pal
Buddy, can you spare a dime?

Copyright © 2020 From My Isle Seat
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