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This Land – Louisiana

On the road to Alexandria, Ronnie and Rocinante pulled into a mud bug shack for a bite before settling in for the night. Striking up a conversation with the bartender, Ronnie asked about all those Apostolic churches he was passing on the Louisiana back roads. In the next hour and a half, Ronnie got waaaay more than he bargained for. The bartender had a mellow drawl Ronnie found mesmerizing… a combination of Southern gentry and creole. His ample snow white beard reminded Ronnie of those Park Avenue Santas helping New York parents discover the hopes and dreams of their little ones. He had the dark skin and flashing blue eyes of an avid sun worshipper, projecting the relaxed countenance of a lifelong beachcomber. His loose fitting color patterned shirt reminded Ronnie of African Dashikis, but the style was more like something you would expect to see at a Grateful Dead concert. The bartender seemed intrigued about Ronnie’s curiosity, and so began to unspool a strange tale of spiritual divergence in the great state of Louisiana.

He told the story of Amos Moses, a Cajun of mixed heritage. Some say he’s indigenous, some say his ancestry has deep roots in Palestine, some say Hebrew, and some say he’s Mexican-American, but most interestingly, there is talk among the bayou natives that Amos was a baby floating in a wicker basket, in the swamp, sorta like the Moses of biblical lore. They say he was home schooled in the bayou and currently roams the Mississippi/Louisiana swamps alone in a semi-reclusive stasis.

Amos Moses

Anyway, the story heats up with interesting reports of things that happen around Amos. People having lost sight, suddenly able to see again. Others seemingly on death’s door, miraculously recovering after a short visit. Also, some of the cryptic things he says have been interpreted to contain deep spiritual meaning to those in earshot. Some have claimed Amos’ words hit them like lightning bolts, instantly transporting them to a more enlightened existence. Like the Zen Masters of old, he spins koen-like puzzles that shake the fetters from these troubled souls. And there is a genuine movement coalescing around Amos. The locals are beginning to believe this fella is the actual reincarnation of the biblical Yeshua, or as westerners call him, Jesus of Nazareth.

Now, controversy is building because, in Louisiana, there are Apostolic churches everywhere. In the poor parishes, of which there are many, and more affluent ones as well. Since the 2016 presidential election, you may have heard a thing or two about the New Apostolic Reformation. For those unfamiliar, this is a branch of Christianity declaring “spiritual war” on western liberal democracy. From their tough talk, one might think they are ready to take up arms and do physical harm to their non-Christian Nationalist neighbors, though it seems no one really believes they’ll walk that talk. That said, the apostolics have friends in high places. Sam Alito, the Supreme Court justice, for example. The Speaker of the House of Representatives, Louisiana native, Mike Johnson for another.

Anyway, the movement brewing around Amos Moses aims to make a clear distinction between this New Apostolic Reformation’s “holy war” and the actual teachings of the biblical Yeshua. Why? Because, according to Amos’ devotees, the anticipated moment has arrived. Yeshua has returned, but it’s not like the apocalyptic Christian sects think. The movement growing around Amos wants everyone to know the end-times tone of apostle John’s “Book of Revelation” is not to be taken for anything more than a commentary on the fall of the Roman Empire of John’s day. Most likely, if John had known his words would be taken literally two thousand plus years later, he would have been amused, at best.

So, Amos’ followers believe he is the second coming of Yeshua, but Amos himself, having grown tired of arguing about it (like Brian in Monty Python’s satire), declares that if it IS true, he wants everyone to get back to the original intent of his past self’s teachings, and please don’t try to elevate him to a position of political power.

“For fuck sake,” Amos is notorious for letting the swears fly! “The ‘kingdom of God’ is an ephemeral idea, not of this world, and certainly not a literal form of governance… Jesus Jumpin’ Christ,” he ironically moans!

All that said, this brewing mythology could simply be a case of mass hysteria. But if not, Amos Moses, reincarnation of Yeshua of Nazareth, is bound to have a thing or two to discuss with the Pope (vis child abuse) as well as those TV preachers pushing the “prosperity” snake oil fleecing vulnerable believers every day to the tune of billions. Regularly raking in enough to finance lavish the lifestyles of boldly acquisitive charlatans. And whether one believes Amos Moses or the purveyors of the new Apostolic Reformation, it might be best to let devotees sort it out away from the halls of political governance.

As Ronnie leaves the bartender a generous tip and Rocinante pushes the HSoB tour to Tennessee, a few things can be said of the great state of Louisiana. For one, there are super colorful characters and interesting diverse spiritual traditions. We haven’t even mentioned the Voodoo community, let alone anything in the vein of Islam. After all, some of the most transcendent, gorgeous poetry comes from the Sufi tradition.

MAGA
Spanish moss in the Louisiana Bayou
Voodoo
Sufi Dervish

And so, as Rocinante rolls into the Louisiana sunset, Ronnie’s final take away is this: Spiritual vibes run deep, wide, and mysterious in Louisiana, just like those swampy bayous down south.

Onward through the fog… RH

On the bayou back roads…
In the fertile Delta…
You’ll find devote folks…
In Louisiana…
So boil them mud bugs…
Strike up a Zydeco…
Meet me, with beads, in New Orleans!


This Land – Mississippi

They say Mississippi is a great place to commune with ghosts, that Mississippians love a good story. And so, in honor of the great state of Mississippi, here’s a real doozy of a ghost story. Mostly inspired by a dream from our first restless night in here. For some reason, Ronnie awoke around 4:00am, probably from a limb scraping against the side of the van nudged by a gentle breeze (or something like that). Anyway, fragments of the dream are drastically embellished below… Enjoy!

The setting is a ghostly confab at a fabled haunted house, the McRaven House, in Vicksburg, Mississippi.

Attendees:
Sam Clemens
William Faulkner
Edger Poe
Margaret Mitchell
Ambrose Bierce
Kate Stone

The McRaven House, a skeletal silhouette against the bruised, twilight sky, pulsed with an unearthly chill. Inside, or rather, through the decaying grandeur of the parlor, a spectral congress convened. Skulking around the fringes of this gathering is the ghost of little Maggie, playing trickster pranks on the adults, generally bringing a sense of dark levity to the air.

We open with a tight shot on Mr. Clemons, a wisp of white mustache and sardonic grin, his cigarillo fuming. He’s leaning against the hearth, its phantom flames licking at the soot-stained bricks. “Well, gentlemen, gentleladies, and… whatever that is,” he gestured vaguely at a giggling, translucent figure flitting near the chandelier, “let’s get down to cases. How are our successors faring? Are any of them capable of spinning a yarn worth a damn?”

Mr. Faulkner, a cloud of tobacco-scented gloom, swirled into view. “Faring? They wallow, Sam. They wallow in the shallow pools of… of instant gratification. They cannot understand the… the weight of history, the… the tangled roots of the South. They write… tweets, truths, threads, blue butterflies. Shit postings! Hardly enough for Walt to call a ‘barbaric yawp,’ and this is supposed to encapsulate the human condition? Absurd.”

Edgar Poe, his eyes dark, hollow pits, floated near a dusty window. “They seek brevity, a fleeting spark of… of sensation. They have lost the exquisite agony of prolonged despair. They write of… of vampires with sparkling skin. My own horrors, once so profound, are now… romantic comedies.” He shuddered, a sound like a rustling death shroud.

Ms. Mitchell, her spectral Scarlett O’Hara flouncing slightly, adjusted a phantom shawl. “Darling, it’s simply dreadful. They’ve taken my beloved South, my tragic heroes, and… and they’ve made them into… into soap operas! They’ve diluted the very essence of suffering into… into sickly sweet drivel.”

Ambrose Bierce, his face a mask of cynical amusement, materialized near a broken mirror. “Irony, my dear Ms. Mitchell, is the universe’s most exquisite mistress. And it seems they have long since hung her in a cheap motel room. With the veritable parade of ironies cavalierly overlooked by average folks these days, one must imagine the poor girl spinning in her grave like a top. These mere mortals believe they have conquered death, disease, and ignorance. Hell, some of them actually believe their clever technologists have them on the verge of immortality! Absurd doesn’t even come close to describing their delusion.”

Ms. Stone, her translucent form radiating a quiet, melancholic strength, drifted near the window. “They have forgotten the true cost of war, the devastation it leaves in its wake. They romanticize conflict, turn it into… entertainment. They have no concept of the hunger, the loss, the sheer… futility. And now, they’re bringing those silly biblical prophecies into the picture… again. They can’t wait to launch a third global conflagration.”

A sudden, chilling giggle echoed through the room. Little Maggie, the spectral trickster, had replaced Faulkner’s pipe tobacco with a wisp of Spanish moss. He sputtered, the moss dissolving into thin air. “They also believe,” Maggie piped up, her voice a ghostly whisper, “that they can photograph ghosts with their… their ‘smartphones’. They take pictures of… of dust and claim it’s us.” She cackled, a sound like wind chimes in a graveyard.

Clemmons chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. “Indeed, child. They attempt to capture the intangible, the unseen, with their… their digital trinkets. They have become slaves to the very technology they believe liberates them. They spend their days staring at glowing rectangles, believing they are experiencing… life.”

Poe raised an eyebrow. “They believe the darkness can be banished with… with light. They illuminate every corner, every crevice, yet they remain blind to the true shadows that lurk within their own souls.”

Mitchell sighed dramatically. “And the fashion! Oh, the atrocities they call fashion! They wear… leggings as trousers leaving nearly nothing to the imagination! It’s simply… barbaric.”

Bierce, ever the cynic, added, “They have created a world of… of curated perfection. Every image, every interaction, filtered and polished to remove any trace of… of authenticity. They live in a world of lies, and they call it… social media.”

Maggie, now floating upside down near the ceiling, began to hum a discordant tune. “They think they can solve the world’s problems with… with the pound sign, they call it a ‘hashtag.’ They use it to pass around short photoplays like chain letters spreading like the plague, and say these picture shows can change the course of history.”

Faulkner, still slightly flustered by the moss incident, muttered, “They cannot grasp the… the cyclical nature of time. They repeat the same mistakes, generation after generation, oblivious to the… the echoes of the past.”

Clemons, leaning against a bookshelf, concluded, “In short, they are a collection of self-absorbed, technologically addicted, historically ignorant… fools. And they think we are the phantoms.”

A chorus of ghostly laughter filled the McRaven House, echoing through the empty rooms, a testament to the enduring irony of the mortal plane. Little Maggie, her eyes gleaming with mischievous delight, began to pull the spectral drapes from the windows, plunging the room into an even deeper, more unsettling darkness.

Onward through the fog… RH

In the town of Vicksburg…
In the house McRaven…
You may encounter…
Some ghostly maven…
And like the flow of…
The Mighty Mississip…
Everything that changes…
Stays the same.

This Land – Alabama

Ok, alright. According to some feedback received from early Hot Springs or Busk dispatches, travel blogs are a dime a dozen. People don’t want more words belaboring the obvious or redundant. Instead, some have suggested we try something compelling and original from these observations and meditations. And now, as we emerge from the 2024-25 deep freeze in balmy South Florida, it’s time to reboot HSoB along the southern coast in the heart of Dixie. After that, when Spring really takes off, we’ll travel up the Eastern Seaboard in the search of ghosts, poets, and visionaries.

Now, we sincerely apologize for those snoozy dispatches of Hot Springs or Busk Phases I, II, and III (West and Midwestern states). Once a better modus-operandi is developed, maybe we’ll revisit them. Seriously, WA, OR, and CA literally gave Rohlfie the creeps with NO due justice done to those feelings. Anyway, at least for now, the new angle is STATE NAME: Take a Walk on the Wild Side. We’re gonna string, like pearls, stories from each state, all the while honing and fine-tuning our voice. Boring is not allowed. “Ecstatic truth” is the aim. But as Werner Herzog has already shown, details might come in fuzzy or even somewhat inaccurate. As long as deeper truths are captured, the details can go to the Devil. And so…

Without further adieu, This Land: Alabama

We landed in Foley en-route to Mobile. Our boondocker‘s workflow required landing somewhere close to an urban center large enough for a Planet Fitness without frustrating traffic snarls, but small enough to function at a pace suitable for wayfaring senior citizens. Foley, AL is perfect! Less than 50 miles from Mobile with all necessary accommodations located along a single boulevard. Once settled and underway, we met some nice folks at the library and the nearby dog park.

And the stories… well…

For instance, this one fella, a sort of silver-haired gent told us he’d seen a Sasquatch stomping around Conecuh County. “A hairy beast hollerin’ and crossin’ roads like he’s late for supper,” he said. “Back in my day, we had ‘possums, maybe a bear. Now folks are scared,” he winked. “He’s prob’ly just lookin’ for a decent sweet potato pie.”

I asked him if anyone had a clear photo to be sure it wasn’t just Florida Man paying a visit to some Alabama relatives. “No sah,” he said giving his glasses a wipe-down. “But my neighbors smartass teenager created a deep fake of the one they think they saw.” He handed me a photo from his wallet. “I know there’s probably no real bigfoot, but it gives the boys at the donut shop something to gossip about.” He slipped the photo back into his wallet, took off his hat, and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief.

“Then there’s them boomin’ noises,” he said. “Like the sky’s got the hiccups.” He tried to describe the scope of his neighbors’ concern. “Mountain Brook to Arab, everyone’s hearin’ it. Folks tweetin’ James Spann like he’s got the answers to the universe.” He paused a moment to take a tennis ball out of his dog’s mouth and throw it several yards. “Even NASA’s scratchin’ their heads. They say they don’t know. Don’t know! Used to be, if you didn’t know somethin’, you’d just say, ‘Must be thunder.’ Now, it’s a mystery for the ages.”

He Lives!
Everything Changes

“And speakin’ of mysteries,” he continued. “This lawyer fella got tossed from his own church. On Easter! Over a court order.” He flashed a wide-eyed expression of surprise. “Seems the Lord’s house ain’t a sanctuary from ex-wives or security guards. Banned from all 15 campuses! That’s a powerful ban, ain’t it?” I nodded. “Used to be, church was for repentin’. Now, it’s for keepin’ folks out.” I agreed, “I guess that’s taking restraining order to a new level,” i said.

I took a sip of coffee and decided to stay with this interesting fellow a while longer. He went on entertaining his energetic beagle with the ball, silent for a moment. After a brief tussle with the dog, he threw the ball and cleared his throat. “Then there’s the fella mauled by a trained emotional support dog.” With a furrowed brow he said. “On a plane!” After a brief pause he continued, “now, i knew these animals were becoming more common at airports. But don’t they have certain standards for training before venturing out there in the world with a mission of calming some poor soul’s jangled nerves?” I shrugged. “Used to be,” he said, “a dog was for huntin’ or guardin’. Now, they’re givin’ folks emotional support and bitin’ peoples’ faces off?” “Wa-what?” I asked, finally waking up to the implications. “This emotional support dog mauled another passenger on the plane?” “Yup,” he replied. “And Delta’s got to deal with it. Times have changed, i reckon,” he said with a grimace. “That’s certainly one way to put it.” i said.

“And speaking of wild animals,” he said. “This Cullman woman, stompin’ through a windshield. Did you see that computer video? They tell me these short video clips spread like viruses.” “Yes,” i said. “That lady is a stone cold badass.” He gave me a quizzical look and said, “ok, well, she said she prayed about it, knew it was wrong, and did it anyway.” “You don’t say,” i mused with a chuckle. “That’s… that’s a new level of logic, ain’t it? Used to be, prayin’ was for askin’ for forgiveness after you did somethin’ foolish. Now, it’s a post-action justification.” I laughed so hard i had to wipe a tear from the corner of my eye. “She might have started a trend,” i said.

The beagle was finally tired of chasing the ball and started doing that circle dance that generally comes before plopping down for a doggy break. “Lordy Lord, what a world.” my new companion said. “It’s enough to make a ghost shake his head. Used to be, life was simple. Now, it’s Sasquatch, mysterious booming, church bans, and emotional support attack dogs. I reckon i’ll just keep on keepin’ on and watchin’ the world go round with ol’ Sparky.”

I thanked him for the conversation, we bid fare well, and went our separate ways. He and Sparky to their home. Rohlfie, Ronnie Hays, and i back to good ‘ol Rocinante for some breakfast gruel before heading to the library to get all of this down while it was fresh in the ‘ol memory banks. Next stop, Mississippi!

Onward through the fog… RH

In Conecuh County…
They have a Sasquatch…
Mountain Brook booms…
When sky gods hiccup…
Best be kind in…
Romantic breakups…
Alabama girls will…
Kick your glass!

Audiovision: Meet the New Baus

Delicate Donny Goldencalf the Third, a lad whose lineage boasted more dollars than sense, awoke with a start. Not from a dream, mind you, but from the lingering echoes of a rather unfortunate encounter with a gastroenterologist and his trusty colonoscope. He found himself not in his gilded, monogrammed boudoir, but in a… well, a place. A place teeming with flora of improbable hues and fauna that looked like they’d escaped from a particularly vivid opium dream.

Goldencalf, you see, harbored a secret ambition. Not a secret secret, mind you, as he’d bellowed it from the rooftops of his father’s Fifth Avenue penthouse often enough. He yearned to be a King. A great King. Powerful, virtuous, the whole shebang. The slight snag in this grand design was that Goldencalf’s experience with courage extended only to ordering the household staff to adjust the thermostat, and his virtue was mostly theoretical, confined to dusty volumes he’d never actually read. However, he possessed a talent for self-promotion that would make P.T. Barnum blush. He’d convinced a surprising number of sycophants that his utter lack of substance was, in fact, a profound and nuanced form of… something. They just had to, you know, overlook the fact that he was, metaphorically speaking, starkers.

Now, here he was, in this outlandish land, feeling more metaphorically naked than ever. He’d heard whispers of this place – something about a yellow brick road and a wizard. A wizard who, presumably, could bestow upon him the kingly qualities that he so desperately lacked. So, with a newfound, if somewhat shaky, resolve, Goldencalf set off.

He hadn’t gone far when he encountered a signpost, helpfully pointing towards the aforementioned road. “To the Riviera,” it proclaimed, in lettering that seemed to shimmer with an almost sinister glee. Goldencalf swallowed hard. He’d faced down his father’s investment bankers without flinching, but this… this was different. This was uncharted territory.

He found the road easily enough. It was remarkably yellow, almost garishly so, like a jaundice victim’s complexion. He trudged along, the silence broken only by the frantic thumping of his own heart, which he tried to convince himself was the sound of his burgeoning courage.

Suddenly, a rustling in the undergrowth! Goldencalf froze, his eyes wide with terror. From the bushes emerged… a small, fluffy dog. A lapdog, really, the kind that rich ladies carry in their handbags. It yapped, a high-pitched, insistent sound. Goldencalf yelped, leaping back with a cry that would have shamed a banshee. His carefully constructed facade of bravado crumbled faster than a cheap pastry. The dog, unimpressed by this display of royal fortitude, continued to yap, tail wagging expectantly.

Riviera City, Oz

Goldencalf stared at it, his face pale. This, he realized with a sinking heart, was not going to be as easy as he’d thought. He’d faced down dragons in his limited imagination, but a yapping Terrier? That was a foe of a different caliber altogether. He was, it seemed, the naked, Cowardly Lion. And the quest for courage and virtue, he suspected, was going to be a long and humiliating one. After all, how could one rule a kingdom when one was empty of conviction and terrified of a fluffy handbag accessory? The irony, as they say, was thicker than appointing someone rich from government contracts to oversee the federal treasury.

Stay tuned, for more ironic adventures… Rohlfie

Audiovision: Korisne Budale!

The rusty gears of JR Murgatroyd’s consciousness ground to a halt, then lurched violently into motion. He wasn’t in Rothpal Moneybags’ tricked out, self-driving cybertruck anymore. Or, rather, he was, but also… not. The plush upholstery, once a tasteful (if conspicuously rich) Corinthian leather, now writhed with crows, each pecking at tiny, glittering golden tickets. The air, thick with the slightly sweet, “fruity” smell of leaking electrolyte chemicals and trauma, now carried a distinct whiff of… straw?

“Brain,” JR croaked, his voice a dry rasp. “Need… brain.”

He looked down. His blue power suit, once the envy of every political climber in Ohio, was now a patchwork of burlap and twine. He flapped a straw-stuffed arm. “Holy crap,” he muttered, “am i a… a scarecrow?”

A chorus of cawing erupted from the upholstery. The crows, their eyes gleaming with malicious amusement, seemed to be chanting, “Korisne Budale! Korisne Budale!”

“I resent that,” JR declared, though his voice lacked its usual conviction. “I’m a man of principles! Flexible principles, perhaps, but principles nonetheless!”

He remembered Rothpal Moneybags, the man with a glare that could curdle milk and the promises that were, upon closer inspection, suspiciously vague. “Think of the influence, JR! The access! The… the gravy!” Rothpal smarmed, his eyes glittering like a raven’s hoard. JR, ever the pragmatist, had thought, “Gravy is good. Especially when one has spent one’s formative years subsisting on… well, not gravy.”

His journey to this… scarecrow state, now a little clearer, seemed to contain the following: a wrong turn on a one-way, a frantic attempt to override the autopilot, a sudden, snap of the airbags, the sound of sirens, and then… this.

“Ah, the brain,” a tinny voice echoed. A figure, clad in gleaming tin, clanked into view. “You’re looking for one, are you? A brain? In this sector of… the multiverse?”

“Indeed,” JR said, trying to maintain a semblance of dignity while stuffed with straw. “I seem to have misplaced mine.”

The tin cyborg wannabe chuckled, a sound like nails on a chalkboard. “Misplaced? Or traded for… political advancement? Moneybags has a talent for such transactions.”

“He said it was a ‘strategic partnership’!” JR protested. “He said i was ‘instrumental’!”

“Instrumental in what? Filling his pockets while he sells fascist exceptionalism to the gullible?” The heartless Tin Man retorted. “Look around you, JR. You’re in a dimension where ‘Korisne Budale’ (useful idiot) is a viable career path.”

A yellow brick road, paved with golden tickets and broken promises, stretched into the distance. A lion, sporting a meticulously quaffed combover, cowered behind a pile of Kremlin-backed IOUs. And a witch, wearing designer yoga pants and holding a clipboard, was barking inane missives into a megaphone. “They’re grooming children! Federal workers don’t deserve a paycheck! The Gazpacho Police will throw you in the goulash!”

“This is… distressing,” JR admitted, his straw-stuffed head drooping. “I thought i was climbing. I thought i was… succeeding.”

“Succeeding at what?” The Tin Man asked. “Being a puppet? A pawn? A scarecrow with delusions of grandeur?”

“But the gravy!” JR wailed. “The gravy!”

The crows in the upholstery erupted in a fresh wave of cawing, their voices a cruel, mocking chorus. “Gravy! Gravy! Korisne Budale!”

JR, the man who once believed he could outsmart destiny, now knew the bitter truth. He wasn’t a master of his fate. He was a scarecrow, desperately seeking a brain he’d traded for a fleeting taste of gravy, in a multiverse where “win at all costs” usually meant losing everything, including your dignity. And, maybe, your actual brain.

To be continued… Rohlfie

Audiovision: Sympathy for the Tin Man

How did they put it in the Chocolate Factory? Oh, yea, “Blaming the kid is a lie and a shame. You know exactly who’s to blame!” Anyway, the subject of our story was fairly used to getting his way as a lad. His silver spoon had never known the indignity of a mere polishing cloth. And now, he’s conceived a notion so audacious, so utterly of the moment, that even his boss, a man whose portfolio resembles a rogue’s gallery of ethically dubious ventures, blanched. Our hero, you see, desired to transcend the limitations of mere flesh. He yearned to become a cyborg – a gleaming amalgam of man and machine, jacked directly into the internet’s pulsating cloud, a veritable god amongst mortals.

His father, a man whose fortune stemmed from ethically questionable resource mining, turbo-charged the lad’s personality with the weary resignation of a parent who’d long ago given up on shaping a soul. And so, dropped the youth amongst the lords of flies, forcing our hero to find his way in a world of bullies. Then later, all grown up, after amassing a vast fortune, assembled a team of “bio-enhancement specialists” (read: guys who’d watched too many sci-fi movies), and after a series of excruciatingly painful and undoubtedly illegal procedures, he was…transformed.

Now, if you believe in the multiverse, you know it’s possible our hero awoke not in the world where a climate-controlled sensory deprivation tank eased him back into the waking state of normal existence, but in a place that looks like it was decorated by a deranged picnic enthusiast. Giant lollipops sprouting from the ground, the sky an unsettling shade of cerulean, and the inhabitants… well, not exactly the golf-club socialites to which our hero was accustomed. One fellow, rather short and stout, wore a hat that appeared to be trying to mate with his head.

And in this strange absurd dreamlike world, it slowly dawned on our hero that his transformation hadn’t quite gone as planned. He was, for lack of a better explanation, more machine than man. And then, insult to injury, he discovered, he was without a heart. Apparently, the “bio-enhancement specialists” had skimmed over that particular organ in their rush to install the Wi-Fi card.

Anyway, a road paved with what appeared to be gold bricks stretched before him. “Well,” he thought, with the optimism of a man whose only real problem had ever been deciding between the cocaine or ketamine, “at least there’s a road. And it’s shiny.” So he set off, determined to find his heart, perhaps encountering some ready guides along the way.

Alas, fate, that fickle mistress, had one last jest to play. A gentle rain began to fall. Our hero, whose exterior was apparently more susceptible to the elements than a cheap garden gnome, began to…rust. He froze, mid-stride, a gleaming monument to misplaced ambition and the perils of cut-rate cyborg surgery. His last thought, before the CPU seized entirely, was a profound regret that he hadn’t opted for the platinum plating. At least that wouldn’t have rusted.

To be continued… Rohlfie

This Land – Florida: Part IV (river of grass)

The River of Grass rolls, slow and steady,
life and death in perpetual flow.
Pines in rockland whisper secrets to the wind,
a rustling curtain veiling murky depths.
Devil Darter‘s wings, a warning to the wise,
perched on cypress knees, ancient, strong, and gnarled.

Shark Valley‘s stillness broken by a fin,
a silent hunter gliding through the reeds.
Gators bask, the patience of armor,
waiting for a careless egret’s slip.
Airboats slice through the shallow glade,
leaving trails that vanish… vanish and fade.

Flamingoes wade, a treat for the eye,
a vibrant contrast of muted hues.
Mangrove tunnels twist and bend, a labyrinth of arms,
for hiding, sheltered by the tangled roots.
Ten Thousand Islands stretch and fade,
a watery maze where sea and land collide.

At Christian Point the skeets do swarm,
the muddy bog, a perilous hike,
proceed with caution, and leave at sundown,
the tangle is alive, its hunger burns.

Marjorie’s voice, conscience of the glades,
champion of the wild, fragile beauty.
She spake the value of endless green,
the interconnectedness of countless lives.
Her words, a call to protect this place,
a plea for balance in a ravenous space.

Remember remember, the lessons of the wild,
the delicate balance that’s easily disturbed.
Remember remember, our schoolyard sorrow,
the shattered peace, the pain of tomorrow.
Protect this wilderness, protect these children,
till silence swallows both… in a rolling river of grass.

From Saint Auggy……
To Tallahassee…
You’ll see the fire ants..
Prolificacy…
And like the bears in…
Yellowstone grassy…
Don’t look FL Man in the eye.

Below the Earth – Above the Sun: Freedom?

Well, well, well… it seems we’ve reached the final stages of a long process dismantling the Rooseveltian status-quo. And with the reinstallation of D.J.T. in the White House, there’s a concerted effort to make these changes as permanent possible, given the constraints of the original constitutional design. With that in mind, and considering the current electorate’s chronic division, this would be a good time to gut-check where our neighbors are coming from. That is, if we care to avoid uncivil conflict.

Now, i think we can agree there are forces benefiting constant news cycle chaos, keeping potential voters focused on differences over commonalities. It keeps their eyes off the various power grabs going on behind the scenes. It keeps the respective tribes feeling threatened and fearful. This works for those who practice the “art of the possible.” I mean, not long ago, the possibility of having an ethically-challenged flim-flam man occupying the White House was patently absurd. I’m not saying the swamp didn’t need some scrubbing bubbles and a stiff brushing, it certainly did, but the intellectual gulf between someone like Gary Hart (a known philanderer) and Donald Trump (even worse) is unfathomably wide. For some reason, our fellow citizens decided expertise and competence was no longer as important as loyalty to their respective “identity” clubs (Ted Coppel summarized it best).

My decision to wade into this toxic pool was motivated by what appears to be an unfortunate side-effect of this “tribal” urge. Specifically, it appears the forces of Christian Nationalism have risen to the top of the power struggle in DC. This is alarming for me as a strong proponent of maintaining the church/state separation. Over the years, i have observed with dismay the rightward creep of our political overton window. I dread the possibility that, when the dust settles on the Trump era, we find ourselves in a totalitarian theocracy, the kind predicted by Frank Zappa in the 1980s. But then reason kicks in, i follow the money and no, i don’t believe the theocrats will end up on top.

That said, what’s coming up behind the theocrats concerns me more. That is the billionaire tech-bro libertarians lapping up Curtis Yarvin‘s notions of “corporate monarchy.” Not that he doesn’t have some interesting ideas, he does. And when he’s riffing at his trolly best, it’s a super entertaining read. However, i’m no historian, but i do pay attention, and it seems pretty clear that we’ve already litigated the divine rights of kings (1776), and we’ve already litigated totalitarian fascism (WWII), we’ve already defeated totalitarian communism (cold war), and we’re currently contending with totalitarian theocracy (global war on terror). Oh… and the planets, including ours, are spherical, not flat (i can’t believe these things have to be said out loud).

Anyway, Mr. Yarvin’s corporate monarchy is a libertarian pipe dream. He says “democracy is incompatible with ‘freedom,'” i say monarchy is… but again, we’ve already litigated this, right? Unfortunately, Mr. Yarvin’s now defunct Unqualified Reservations blog is all the rage with the billionaires backing the MAGA electoral coup. He says things like progressivism is a monolithic cathedral, not a bustling marketplace of ideas, and the Rand-worshiping self-interested billionaire tech titans lap it up like caviar. They know their ideas can’t prevail in the marketplace bazaar, let alone a functioning democracy.

And so… we have to address it. The contrast of Eric Raymond‘s thesis on the Cathedral and the Bazaar, and the reality of the Yarvin-inspired Project 2025, in fact, morphing the US Federal Government into a right-wing, totalitarian dictatorship before our eyes really does feel like a glitch in the Matrix. Will they succeed? Jury’s out, but if it comes down to the federal judiciary, Trump and Mitch McConnell have effectively stacked the deck for the MAGA version.

How will they do it? Well, by now, most of us are savvy to MAGA’s “flood the zone” strategy. That is keeping the press and those that follow along buried in outrage after outrage effectively wearing down resistance due to fatigue. Now, Yarvin’s musings can be seen in a similar light. In that, his “Open Letter to Open Minded Progressives” is 300 pages of cherry-picked history, and troll-speak blather making a scant few interesting points. Who has time to pour over 300 page troll manifestos? For Christ’s sake, get to the point, and move on.

For those unfamiliar, here’s a bare bones outline:

  • Progressivism is an orthodoxy every bit as monolithic as Catholicism.
  • He suggests the press and universities are part of this distributed monolith. He calls this monolith the “Cathedral,” a totalitarian society, lacking central coordination.
  • Conservatives are captive of the Christian Cathedral, and Leftists are captives of the Progressive one.
  • Progressive-inclined voters are the American equivalent of Brahmans in a class-stratified society (the ruling class).
  • The doomed are “untouchables” in this metaphor… he offers some provocative ideas on what to do with them… wow.
  • Conservatives are everyday middle-of-the-road work-a-day citizens… Yarvin calls them, “Townies.”
  • Yarvin believes the Prog-Con duopoly needs to be smashed in favor of a neo-reactionary monarchical structure (back to the classical future), very much like the modern corporation, leveraging the latest technology replacing human bureaucracy with technology-assisted autocratic rulers (CEOs) answerable to appointed boards of directors.
  • He says the current system is incompatible with “freedom” and suggests military rule or restricting voting rights as part of the transition from democracy to a more libertarian-friendly patchwork of autonomous city-states.

Yay… no more participatory democracy… no more stupid voting… woohoo!

FREEDOM!

Ok… back to the original purpose of this screed (appreciating our neighbors’ definition of the word, freedom). There’s way too much assuming going on these days. What i mean is, when we hear someone talking about “freedom” whether accompanied with Manosphere chest thumping or NPR-style hushed tones, we are rarely treated to a specific definition of the term.

With that in mind, let’s start with the Oxford English Dictionary (freedom): As you can see, there are many ways to apply this Swiss Army Knife of a word, but i would argue a couple angles are of paramount importance within the context of our current crisis of incivility, 1.) freedom to exploit market opportunities, unhindered by cumbersome regulations (or taxes), 2.) freedom of agency and lifestyle choices unhindered by the dictates of patriarchal culture or the dogmatic demands of a particular religion or ideological concern.

Based on what they take from Yarvin’s Dark Enlightened vision, here’s what i think the MAGA brain trust plans to ram up Red (Con) and Blue (Prog) America’s backside:

1.) All will be free of the maddening obligations of participatory democracy.
2.) All will be free to trust gov-corp to deliver value for the customers (citizens).
3.) They will, because we know customers vote with their feet when they find conditions in their current “patch” (autonomous city-state) unsatisfactory,
4.) All will be free to move to a friendlier patch. One that caters to their particular cultural, legal, tax-code, healthcare, travel, climate, recreation and professional opportunity preferences.

Don’t like it…? lump it…
Are you ok with any of this…?

What are you going to do about it?

Onward through the fog… Rohlfie

Below the Earth – Above the Sun: The Fibrillating Heart

The class war is over… we won. ~ Warren Buffett (paraphrased)

This morning, i woke on the heels of a very strange dream. In that spilled neon netherworld between wakefulness and full-bore dreaming, i saw a TV debate of the most grotesque and farcical kind. A clash of larger-than-life personalities that seemed to pulse with the beat of a mournful tune. The exchange left an assembled host slack-jawed and angels reaching for their smelling salts. On one side, Raoul Duke, the fictional alter-ego of Gonzo Journalist, Hunter S. Thompson, a bit disheveled from what looked like a three-week bender in the heart of the American Nightmare. On the other side, Grigori Rasputin, peasant turned confidant to the imperial family of Nicholas II, the last Emperor of Russia. Basically, an unsanctioned agent from Hell, officious as ever in a full-length black tunic, his beard scraggly, his eyes glittering with infernal amusement.

Duke
Rasputin

The subject of this bizarre cage match? Nothing less than the relative merits of the Beatitudes versus the neo-reactionary agenda of a lavishly funded, high-tech, anti-democratic, ethnonationalist wrecking crew.

Duke, surprisingly, championed the Nazarene’s teachings, albeit with a somewhat impaired countenance suggesting he might have misinterpreted “turn the other cheek” as an invitation to sample every substance in his kit bag. He blathered on about meekness, mercy, and loving your enemy as yourself. His arguments punctuated by tics of paranoia and a banshee howl that rattled the walls.

Rasputin, meanwhile, was in his element, his sardonic wit honed to a razor’s edge. He expounded the neo-reactionary talking points with a gleeful malice, projecting contradictions, absurd fantasies of racist discrimination, and thinly veiled appeals to violence and hatred onto the distracted Duke. With the confidence of an operative well versed in Curtis Yarvin‘s litany of insipid Matrix anecdotes and historical cherry picking. He painted a portrait of red and blue pills, medical experimentalists, and treasonous enemies within, with minds controlled by a monastery of elites indoctrinating youth with a bankrupt philosophy of “the woke.” His heart filled with a venomous envy of anyone with a slightly brighter enlightenment, or an accurate take on Eric Raymond’s thesis of the Cathedral and the Bazaar.

“These libtards,” he sneered, his voice dripping with contempt, “prattle on about the merits of diversity while simultaneously demonstrating their utter intolerance of white male energy. They yearn for a mythical world of brotherly love that could never exist, a paradise of fools and dreamers lost in the mists of their own addled imaginations. The very embodiment of the Dunning-Kruger effect, their ignorance so profound it renders them incapable of recognizing their own stupidity.”

Duke, roused from his stupor by Rasputin’s shameless belligerence, attempted a rebuttal, but his words were lost in a torrent of incoherent babble. He stumbled over his own feet, his bucket hat askew, his kit bag waving erratically like a train conductor’s lamp gone haywire. Even in this impaired condition, he mocked his interlocuter’s obsession with gender ambiguity and critical history, his ludicrous claims of religious hegemony, and his pathetic attempts to cloak his bigotry in the mantle of patriotism.

Rasputin, sensing the rabble on his side, pressed the attack. “These are not patriots,” he thundered, “but parasites, feeding off the carcass of a once-great nation. They’re the enemies of freedom, foes of common sense, the very antithesis of everything that is good, sweet, and true in the human spirit.”

The debate, if one could call it that, ended in a whimper rather than a bang. Duke, thoroughly distracted and utterly outmatched, collapsed in a heap of red herrings and non-sequiturs. Rasputin, victorious but strangely melancholic, vanished in a puff of brimstone, leaving behind the lingering scent of sulfur and the echo of scathing laughter.

The assembled onlookers, meanwhile, were left to ponder the spectacle they had just witnessed. Had a cartoon character just delivered a wobbly, but eloquent defense of Christian values? Had the wizard of Petersburg just leveled an aggressive defense of neo-fascist philosophy? Had the world gone mad? Or was this just another Tuesday in the heyday of the New Apostolic Reformation?

One thing was certain: the universe has a wicked sense of humor.

Strap in, loopers…
…the ride has just begun.

Below the Earth – Above the Sun: Stranger in a Strange Land

I’d like to start this missive with a shout of gratitude to a few organizations. First, every public library in every town. So far, i have yet to be turned away for lack of digital nomad-friendly workspaces (WiFi, power, comfortable tables/chairs). Next, Cracker Barrel. Often, strangers in nomad vehicles are not welcome for overnight stay in commercial parking lots. But not with Cracker Barrel. THANK YOU! And finally, though there is a nominal monthly fee, Planet Fitness has been a godsend for those of us who can’t go more than a couple days without a shower…. thank you twice over!

Rocinante
Danger Will Robinson

Now, transitioning from the professional treadmill into the ranks of fixed-income retirees has been a real eye opener for me. Things that would go unnoticed due to keeping head down and focusing on professional and parental knitting suddenly become glaringly obvious. For example, our nation’s once-proud melting pot has grown somewhat less tolerant of the stranger. Especially if the stranger is not of self-sufficient means. Intolerance and xenophobia have grown more and more common, and the problem isn’t confined to the United States, it’s a growing worldwide, human problem. Apparently, when we feel threatened, or fearful, we tend to default to selfish countenance, we struggle putting ourselves in the stranger’s shoes, we tend to point fingers and search for ready scapegoats.

And the unwelcome strangers are not only immigrants and refugees. We are strangers to each other over political, religious, or ideologic differences. And due to a lack of empathy in the wake of fear and threat, we find it difficult to agree or compromise on any topic of contention. This, despite the fact that the Internet has opened potential communication channels to literally anyone in the free world. Ironically, this hasn’t remedied the feeling of disconnection from one another but has exacerbated it. Thanks a lot, Al Gore!

I’ve heard of studies indicating the number of folks claiming to have no friends tripling over the last thirty years… ZERO friends?!?! Astounding! Another crowning irony in an age of social media where so-called “friend connections” can number in the thousands. Some say there is a loose correlation of social media exposure and loneliness. Of course, correlation isn’t causation, but so what? If there’s even a remote chance these correlations are indeed causal, should we not try a little harder to address them?

Even more troubling is a deeper correlation causation question originally posed by a truly loathsome individual. Recent tragic events have shone a light on the ideas espoused by the infamous luddite, Dr. Ted Kaczynski. That industrial society, mass-production culture, explosive urban sprawl, is a sickness whose only cure is the revolutionary rejection of industrial/technical society. And if violent means is necessary to bring this about, it is the obligation of right-minded revolutionaries to do what is necessary. Of course, we know how Dr. Kaczynski’s story ends. Unfortunately, there are folks out there who believe he was onto something, and some have put his ideas into action.

I cannot agree with the revolutionary luddites. I’ve been a techno-optimist for the entirety of my professional life. Unfortunately, exigencies of capitalism have tainted the affirming potential of global connection, democratic computing power, even machine intelligence. And so, at the end of my professional life, i’m forced to rethink these 5th Estate Evangelical tendencies. The baton is passed to the next generation of techno-optimists and i hope we can come to some sort of compromise between the needs of individuals and the needs of the commons before these revolutionary luddites blow up any more cyber confidence.

Kurt Vonnegut addressed the malaise of loneliness decades ago. He diagnosed our sickness and offered a remedy. He argued the tradition of rootless nuclear families was woefully inadequate to the task of providing human companionship. Specifically, ladies need lots of other ladies with whom to talk about anything and EVERY thing. Men need buddies with whom to punch in the arm and go do guy stuff with. Preferably away from the gaggle of ladies. He urged us to actively seek and spend as much time as possible with our “Karass” (extended families). They can be fraternal, they can be professional, they can be familial, but by surrounding ourselves with people who love and identify with us, perhaps we can cure this creeping cancer of loneliness and alienation.

If nothing else, this could give our kids a fighting chance of growing up with confidence and functional social skills. Seriously, Mom and Dad in the nuclear family arrangement only have each other for adult company? Dad doesn’t want to talk about EVERYTHING, and Mom doesn’t want to get punched in the arm bouncing around in a dune buggy. And what of the Moms and Dads who have concluded their union a mistake, and now don’t even have each other? Yes! This is a sickness. Bad for Mom and bad for Dad. As for the kids? Well many end up like the stranger. Ghosts, aimlessly wandering the Earth. Alone, ruminating society’s problems instead of practicing joyful follies with other like-minded imperfect human beings.

You may have heard of “The New Apostolic Reformation” (NAR). This is an antidemocratic movement at war with the secular order designed by our nation’s founders. They say the traditional family is the fundamental unit of God’s perfect order. But this “traditional” arrangement to which they refer is a patriarchal construct, and in the US, it should be glaringly obvious this male-supremacy arrangement has failed to deliver adequate human companionship and fellow-goodwill.

Mr. Vonnegut was right. Unfortunately, we are at a transition crossroad, and though the NAR believes they will dominate future cultural evolution on the coattails of the MAGA libertarian movement, what they don’t take into account is that the top of the MAGA food chain is populated by billionaires all about self-interest. They will abandon the NAR as soon as they come to cross purposes. As well, demographic trends simply can’t support a theocracy of any stripe. I hope saner heads prevail and we rethink what it means to be part of a traditional family with the aim of inclusion. Christians, Muslims, Jews, Buddhists, Mormons, and Secular Humanists all together in a mega-karass where no one is the stranger.

Cheers… Rohlfie