"Let Them Eat Mud"—Biden and Harris Don't Even Feign Concern For Parts Of Southeast Where Entire Towns Have Vanished Off The Map Since "Helene."

"UNIMAGINABLE" Let's Stay In Closer Contact And Form A Practical Community To Survive The US Government Going Forward

“Unimaginable.”

Pulverized roads, NC.

Joe Biden, angrily says “No,” when asked if more federal support for tornado relief is coming.

https://x.com/liz_churchill10/status/1840586035639758910

Shellshocked

It’s a familiar feeling, to be an American citizen, since 9/11, 2001: To be shocked out of your shock to a new degree of shock, and wonder why you’re still shocked.

As though an invisible black mountain beast appears, again and again, and kicks you very hard in the heart, knocking out your power supply, and all the things you were trying to build hope around. Your childlike beliefs about “the world.”

“Mama, surely…that couldn’t happen, could it?”

“No, child, no. They would never do that. Don’t worry.”

One damned apocalyptic event after another, and our parents (Presently, Joe Biden and Kamala Harris) leave us in a burning house because they have a cocktail party to go to. And they have rogue nations to siphon hundreds of billions of dollars to, while we drown, freeze, starve, or turn purple and die from poisons they told us we had to take if we wanted their love. Nobody knew America was running on perfectly sealed psychopath systems.

You feel queasy, and strangely humiliated. What did you think, fool? That there would be warnings, rescue efforts, FEMA, some kind of President in some kind of baseball cap and windbreaker, showing up and feigning compassion and heroic concern?

It’s a good day when the US government doesn’t kill you outright. And we know, without saying it, they cooked this hurricane, and we’re pretty sure we know why. No media coverage is part of the humiliation—the final form of gaslighting. When will you break down once and for all, “patriot?”

(Never.)

(Credit: Matt Wallace)

Actual people you know still plan to vote for these serial killers, and you’re the one in the doghouse for not understanding the steps to the national suicide dance. The dance of the sophisticates, who are all in on the big joke you just can’t seem to get. All that remains is the offer to die as a good American, cheering for the mass removal of children’s genitals, for endless war funds, for endless poisoning, and making sure you don’t use the word “migrant,” don’t see anything strange about busloads of unconscious children in vans, and that you know the right way to pronounce Kamala.

Are you sorry yet, patriot? You could have been on the winning team. All you had to grasp was the one and only important moral value: Despise Trump.

You can disassociate, or become incapacitated by rage.

I was communicating with Ralph, (our Ralph,) in Weaverville, North Carolina, my father’s home state, as I made my way from Rome back to Granada, by land. I finally cried, about 4 days ago, in a youth hostel in Madrid (don’t ask) after reading this particular collection of deaths published by Mark Crispin Miller. It was the words of the parents that broke through my numbness.

A few of them:

And so on.

Why was there no proper warning— no evacuations?

I was in communication with Ralph on and off and he didn’t mention the storm. “Helene.” I hadn’t looked at a map—I didn’t know where the worst affected regions were. Then suddenly, silence. Ralph was gone. Friday evening in Spain—I called, and texted. By the next day, late afternoon, still unaware he was in the storm zone, I thought the worst. Another breakdown, if that’s the right word. The hysteria that can arise so fast, in me anyway, when a pattern of sound is broken and turns into silence. And of course, it’s the thing I am most guilty of myself. I can easily not reply to a text for several days because of the “syndrome” I work so hard to cure. It is as though all the trauma has created a dense rubble, and only occasionally can I connect back to a previous hour, or thought, or intention. I would (almost) offer to have a chip inserted if it could make me less vanish-ey, more dependable. I always beg people to reach me with sound, since I am snow-blind at this point, to silent electronic communications. It’s the repressed fear that makes me disappear and forget, and I don’t officially believe in fear, yet it sucks all my human energy to manage it even though I don’t believe in it. I’m not, strictly speaking, afraid of something. I’m only afraid of the post-human woke indifference, only. Not bombs, floods, famine, etc. I don’t want to behold or be aware of this post-modern American Gov. faceless, handless, properly hued species. Like you see foisted upon you in all the creepy Gov. graphics.

(Governor of NC.)

What is equity?

It’s faceless properly hued people in graphic posters who deserve to live after all the real Americans die, drown, etc.

The Soviets invented “New Soviet Man” and we followed with “New Covid Person.”

Everything good that you are not.

I seem to be the only person I know who is abjectly horrified by the onslaught of woke graphic Gov. design, (New Covid Person) since 2020. Eventually I will get you all to freak out with me. Somebody, or something, decided there should be an onslaught of faceless, handless cartoon Americans, somehow held up as everything we could be but are not. Let me show one of the handless ones:

I called Siobhan in Ireland and she tried to console me. We agreed I should reach out to Ralph’s kids, so I did, on Facebook—Ralph’s son Tim. He wrote back right away and said he had also not reached his father, but that the roads were down, and communications were down. That made me feel better, as I had had no idea. I don’t only mean I am in Spain—I mean none of us were talking about this, or preparing, or anticipating the communication blackout.

About 6 hour later, Ralph called. He had been home, with no cell service, no electricity, but finally drove somehow out of Weaverville, which is 8 miles from Asheville, and found service. He’s ok, and his family are all ok. I got an email from Dagmar, who lives in Asheville, and Ann, who lives in Tennessee. I wanted to post a request that everybody in the Southeast report themselves safe if they can, but I was too shellshocked.

How could this have happened?

I want my mother!

There’s talk of it being all about lithium reserves in the ground in the Southeast. Conspiracy theories, so called, only serve to help us focus on something else.

I want to communicate better, now more than ever, and stop freezing.

We have to communicate without electronic networks, without the assumption of cell phones and internet. We may even have to learn telepathy again.

Somebody tell me what nerves we still have, up and running, because they seem pretty astounding.

Ralph had a touching human story from his journey; He got angelic help from homeless people who’d been living under tarps for eight months.

The story reminds us that the demons have not and will not break the human contract, especially not in my daddy’s home state of North Carolina.

Ralph said I could share it.

Please tell us where you are, and how you are. Let’s become “neighbors” and see how close some of you may be to others, geographically.

Tomorrow is the day the shipping strike is due to begin.

I regret that I don’t have special insights into what is going on. I’ll try to act with a calm and strong spirit, going forward, and I ask your forgiveness that this post has so much cortisol/adrenaline/distress.

But we have not lost hope.