This Land: Vermont

So… after a brief hiatus from the HSoB tour (Dry Tortugas, baybay), Ronnie and Rocinante pointed the grill due North landing them in historic and spooky (see below) Burlington, Vermont. Now, because Mother Nature has a wicked sense of humor, the first night in this northeastern woodland was accompanied by the infamous “heat dome“. That’s right, temps in the 90s, not cooling down till the wee hours. Of course, Ronnie remains humble, and Rocinante snickers beneath her breath as she’s not bothered by the varieties of biological temperature sensitivities. Ronnie expects the dome to move on soon, and he’s finding the Burlington library facilities among the best yet encountered. In fact, there is only one library in which he has experience that compares with Burlington, in Topeka, KS.

Now when Ronnie thinks of Vermont, his brain immediately goes to Senator Bernie Sanders. And why not? The man, with his rumpled suits and his waving arms, and the voice of gravel mixed with moral indignation, is practically a walking, talking, quintessentially American ideal. He’s the guy who reminds you of what Grandma told you about doing the right thing, even if nobody else is. He’s a fearless avatar, this Sanders, straight outta Vermont. And Vermont, well, it’s got this weird, similar history: secular, sure, but with a moral compass that points due north; revolutionary, absolutely, but grounded in a kind of unvarnished pragmatism that’d make a brick wall seem flighty.

But hold your horses, loopers, because even the best of us, even Vermont, has got some unsightly warts. And these aren’t just little pimples, these are the kind of warts that make you wince.

First off, let’s talk about the Native Americans. The Algonquian-speaking Abenaki and the Iroquoian-speaking Mohawks. They were here, for ten thousand years or more, minding their own business, probably inventing things we still don’t understand. Then the Europeans showed up. And now? Poof. All but extinct within the territory. This, my friends, is not a testament to good neighborly relations. This smells of something far nastier, a militant exercise of racist policies, right down to the bone marrow. And get this: Vermont, with a population that barely scrapes a million souls, is one of the least diverse places you’ll ever lay eyes on. But, and here’s where the whiplash comes in, Vermont was the first state to abolish slavery. The first! They even had safe houses along the Underground Railroad, helping people escape the horrors of coerced servitude. Now, put that next to zero federally recognized tribal associations or reservations. It’s enough to make a progressive-minded person feel like they’ve just been spun around in a washing machine. Vertigo, indeed.

And then there’s the whole women’s suffrage thing. Vermont was ahead of the curve, letting women vote in town elections back in 1880, decades before it was a national thing. Good for them, right? Pat on the back, Vermont! But wait, there’s more. In 1931, this enlightened state became the 29th to pass a eugenics law. Eugenics! Sounds like something out of a bad science fiction novel, doesn’t it? They sterilized people in institutions, people they’d decided were “degenerate” or “unfit.” They said they had permission, but documented abuses, folks, documented abuses. Two-thirds of these procedures were on women, and wouldn’t you know it, poor, unwed mothers were prime targets. There’s a debate about the exact numbers, but most happened between ’31 and ’41, though some went on as late as 1970. So, yeah, light and darkness, yin and yang, the whole cosmic shebang. Vermont embodies it all.

This, loopers, is why Ronnie, with his pragmatic Kanorado heart, loves the place. It’s got guts. It’s got flaws. It’s got character. To understand it better, we gotta dig into the dirt a little.

Let’s talk about Ethan Allen. A farmer with dirt under his fingernails, a writer with some philosophical thoughts rattling around in his head, a military man, and a politician. He’s the guy who practically invented Vermont, and he’s famous for snatching Fort Ticonderoga during the Revolutionary War. He was a land speculator, got into some scrapes with the law, and next thing you know, he’s leading the Green Mountain Boys, who basically ran New York settlers out of town with a campaign of intimidation. Then he gets himself captured by the British, tossed on some Royal Navy ships, and eventually swapped in a prisoner exchange… what a life.

And this Allen fellow, he wrote a book, a controversial little number called “Reason.” He was no Christian, he said, but wasn’t sure he was a Deist either. He just wanted good sense and truth to flourish. He believed that if folks just used their brains, they’d get rid of superstition and have a better understanding of God and their obligations to each other. Sound familiar? It should.

Because from the very beginning, a beacon for human dignity, you’ve got Bernie Sanders, a modern analog to Allen. He stands for something. Yet, Vermont itself remains this sparsely populated, homogenous woodland, a place that could confound even the wisest of philosophical thinkers.

And what about Vermont’s cultural output? Well, you got Phish. A jam band. From Burlington. Known for their musical improvisation and their fan base. The East Coast’s Grateful Dead, essentially. Make of that what you will.

Feeling dizzy yet? Hold on to your hats. In the 21st century, Vermont decided to double down on its progressivism. In 2000, it was the first state to introduce civil unions. Then, in 2009, it was the first state to legalize same-sex marriage, and get this, they did it without being forced by a court. They just did it because they thought it was the right thing to do. And on January 22, 2018, Vermont became the first state to legalize recreational cannabis through legislative action. The ninth state for medical marijuana. And who signed these laws? A Republican Governor!

So, there you have it. Vermont. A place of contradictions, a place of pioneers, a place that sometimes gets it spectacularly right and sometimes gets it spectacularly wrong… c’est la!

And now, Ronnie, not ready to leave this place, is planning to attend some of the local “ghost tours,” cos you know, that’s one of the driving motivations of the HSoB tour. For example: Lake Champlain, bordering Burlington, Vermont, is steeped in maritime history, shrouded in tales of shipwrecks and ghosts including, but not limited to the schooner Sarah Ellen, lost in 1860, has been linked to a legend known as the Champlain Witch. The steamboat Water Witch sank in 1866 during a gale after being converted to a schooner, is another ghostly story of tragedy on the lake. This one has the captain’s youngest child lost to the depths.

Lake Champlain has claimed over 300 shipwrecks, many of these sacred zones are considered inhabited by spirits of those sleeping there. Some of these are included in Vermont’s Underwater Historic Preserve System made accessible to certified summer divers. And some of these divers have reported spooky experiences, including cold waves and strange noises near the wrecks.

Don’t worry, Ronnie won’t dive… hell, he didn’t even go snorkeling at Dry Tortugas. Something about taking off the glasses stops all thoughts of exploring the murky depths. Without the glasses, he feels like a slightly less animated Mr. Magoo.

Onward through the fog… Rohlfie

It may be micro…
More trees than Glasgow…
Green Mountain country…
It’s where the syrup grows…
It’s Lake Champlain…
And its ship wreck ghosts…
All part of American Ideal!

Wizard Whisperer

By the smoking shrooms of the Riviera City, what fresh hell is this? Stan Diller, they call him. Diller Monkey, the festering boil on the backside of Oz. This ain’t your cuddly winged primate flinging feces for giggles, no sir. This is a creature brewed in the very cauldron of Quadling nationalist bile, a walking, squawking hate-balloon who somehow, by the grace of some seriously twisted karmic joke, has the ear – and apparently the drooling attention span – of the goddamn Wizard.

They gossip, these nervous little Munchkin handlers with their sweaty palms and darting eyes, that Diller is the “Wizard Whisperer!” More like the Wizard’s ventriloquist, shoving his twisted rhetoric up the old man’s puppet-hole while the Wiz just blinks and nods like a wind-up jack-in-the-box. Remember that fiasco at the Castleforce Guild global summit? Poor Wizard, nodding off like a goddamn used car lot inflatable tube-man gone limp, and there’s Diller, his beady little monkey eyes gleaming with some kind of perverse pride, practically dragging the befuddled old coot out by the sleeve. You’d almost feel sorry for the Wizard, if you weren’t so busy choking on the stench of Diller’s racist policies.

Family separation at the border? “Zero tolerance” for anyone who doesn’t sport pristine Quadling papers? Banning Oompa Loompas? This is pure, uncut Diller Monkey madness, a xenophobic freak show orchestrated by a tiny, bitter primate with a heart full of rusty nails and a brain marinated in White Quadling grievance. All the more puzzling is the fact that Diller is a flying monkey. A race of creatures formerly demonized and nearly exterminated by the very Quadlings he currently champions. Irony, apparently died in the realm years ago. And the Wizard, bless his fading faculties, scarfs it up like a Big Mac and large fries.

“A simple, no-brainer,” Diller chirps, regarding the trauma inflicted on families ripped apart at his command. This is the kind of soulless pronouncement that should send a chill down the spine of every sentient creature in this cursed land. “The powers of the wizard… will not be questioned!” he screeches, his voice echoing with the unmistakable timbre of a tinpot dictator in the making. Familiar, you say? You bet your lollypop stick it’s familiar. It’s the sound of freedom getting a fake-news red pill shoved up its bum.

And the literary tastes of this creature? Mourning the loss of some scribbler peddling White Quadling “genocide” fantasies in the pages of “Blackheart,” that festering rag for the Oz alt-right? Of course he did. Because this isn’t about policy for the common good, loopers. This is about the primal, gut-level ugliness of racial animus, plain and simple. Diller Monkey isn’t interested in making Oz great again. He’s interested in making it “white” again. Whatever the hell that means in a land full of tin woodsmen, upright lions, and talking scarecrows.

So here we are… the Wizard, the once-revered reality-TV star, now a doddering puppet dancing to the tune of a racist little monkey. The citizens voted for a Wizard, but what they got was Diller, the “Wizard Whisperer,” the architect of Oz’s slow, agonizing descent into a xenophobic hellhole. And all we can do is show up, amidst the crumbling grandeur of Riviera City, and rage against the machine. Because in the grand, twisted theatre of Oz, that’s the only goddamn sane response left.

Stay tuned… much more to come.