I Remember America

To Friends Behind A Frontier

3:01 pm. March 4, 2021

This is the first time I am setting out to write and post here, since my website The Truth Barrier inexplicably disappeared many months ago. I recall seeing the word “suspended,” and I went into a familiar state of disassociation that prevented me from even calling either of my two “webmasters,” but—I will.

I have to thank my friend Chris for insisting I “get on Substack,” a couple of months ago, and apologize to everybody who has subscribed, for taking so long to get started.

It felt as though I had too much to say, yet could not believe a word of what my own mind was registering of the world around me. Like you, I am in shock and disbelief about life in the United States, in the late winter of 2021. I write occasional articles for a few outlets that tolerate me, such as The Epoch Times and UnCoverDC, but here my intention is to show up as a battered, tattered friend, writing letters to other battered, tattered friends, whether I know you yet, or not. I feel we now all really know each other, as though we are all children in the same insanely punitive household. If we stick together, we’ll make it through.

My contributions to “journalism” (which I now call “counter-propaganda”) are few and far between, mainly due to aforementioned shock, but if you’d like to see what I have managed to write, a search on my name at both outlets will bring forth all of the articles.

“Covid-19” has been such a comprehensive attack on human life, language, sanity, decency and “science,” that I need a place to counter-act it with anything that will feel like a consolation, or possibly even a laugh. It forms the backdrop of my writings here, but will not be my focus, as such. It will creep in, since it is the ABUSIVE CREEP that creeps into everything, but as I did on the vanquished Truth Barrier, I’ll try to uplift, even when I address the inevitable horror of it all.

The title of this post is from Eric Sloane’s famous book with the same name, and I always thought it was a beautiful name for a book: “I Remember America.”

I live now in New England, (Northwestern CT) at least temporarily, so I get to see Sloane’s beloved barns, farm tools, covered bridges, rolling hills, and houses, but even in the summer months, what’s missing from the landscape is: People.

As I drive around marveling at the harmonious beauty of Northwestern Connecticut, I negotiate constantly with the surroundings, asking it to please produce people, doing things, the things people do, or used to. I want to see farmers in the fields, wiping their brows, people on porches, or sitting at tables having lunch on checkered tablecloths. It honestly looks post-nuclear, for the sheer absence of visible human activity. And this is where I can’t help but address the Monster (Covid.) The Monster has driven humans inside their homes, but beyond that, it seems they (we) have all but given up on appearing on our own landscapes, and when we do, we are of course masked. (Not me!) I never even saw children sledding on hills, all winter.

Another thing that’s missing is human sounds. In stores, in the small towns on the streets, everywhere is the same new silence. The silence is indicative of shame—the shame they have imposed on us, for being human. We’re expected now to self-identify as pathogens, all of us guilty until proven innocent, which, if they have their way, will be never.

Writing this is, for me, breaking my own internal silence.

I’ll be sharing photos and tales of nature and animals, particularly my first local friend—a horse down the road who I’ve bonded with, though I have no experience with horses. My next post will be about him. I want to write about simple but real things.

The Monster wants us to stop aspiring, stop marveling, stop imagining our future. It wants us to believe that the only remaining activity is to devote ourselves to the inverted worship of a spectral viral threat that refuses to even tell us why it’s not “there” in the original genetic download from China, other than as a genetic sequence, (as opposed to a “viral isolate.”)

I wrote about this absurdity of post-modern synthetic biology here:

https://uncoverdc.com/2020/12/03/ten-fatal-errors-scientists-attack-paper-that-established-global-pcr-driven-lockdown/

Covid-19 is in a very peculiar sense an ideology, or even a culture, the way “communism” was, or Nazi-ism. It has its own code of ugly hideousness, that borrows from both of those, but in some ways manages to eclipse them both. The uniform is the mask, now the double or triple mask, but the code is repression of human soul—all that makes us human.

Covid is the ideology of lovelessness, pretending to be safety.

I even saw screenshots from mothers the other day, who’d locked their children in basements, in order to be good parents in the age of Covid:

The way to rebel is not to refuse to wear a mask; The way to rebel is to refuse to be loveless.

I was at the local pharmacy yesterday, talking to the pharmacist, Chris, about his experiences with the “Covid vaccines” which he is tasked with assisting to inject at a vaccination center in upstate NY. He said he’d not seen any adverse reactions, but that he’d heard many horror stories from hospitals, where young people were arriving, having tried to kill themselves in various ways, including with knives. A younger colleague told him he’d met a family arriving to get their injections, who shared with him the following: They recently went upstairs to discover that their 7 year old son had hung himself.

Have you ever in your life heard anything like that?

I carry him now, in my heart. this small martyr, who simply could not take it anymore. Would there be a slowing down of this abject insanity if we could see his face? How are his parents able to carry on?

I think of Jan Palach, the 20 year old Czech student who set himself on fire in 1989 in Prague, after the Soviet crackdown on the Prague Spring.

From his Wikipedia page:

According to Jaroslava Moserová, a burns specialist who was the first to provide care to Palach at the Charles University Faculty Hospital, Palach did not set himself on fire to protest against the Soviet occupation, but did so to protest against the "demoralization" of Czechoslovak citizens caused by the occupation.

It was not so much in opposition to the Soviet occupation, but the demoralization which was setting in, that people were not only giving up, but giving in. And he wanted to stop that demoralization. I think the people in the street, the multitude of people in the street, silent, with sad eyes, serious faces, which when you looked at those people you understood that everyone understands, that all the decent people were on the verge of making compromises.[5]

We have to find ways to return to joy.

In the bramble outside my window, the birds have been gathering today, having finally discovered the tray of seeds I put out yesterday. A cardinal lands on a branch right in my field of vision, his color like a one bird-riot against dullness. How can anybody describe a bird like this? As though red and orange had a duel and both colors won. There is no way to describe him!

He is the incarnation of Ralph Waldo Emerson’s command:

”Scatter joy!”

My old friend Peter Olsen once said: “Celia, you don’t have a chance. Take it.”