To Friends Behind A Frontier

Canada Plunges Into Darkness, And It's Hard To Find Words

I sometimes lose the capacity to write, yet dozens of paragraphs get written. I become aware that I no longer know what I’m saying. Today, I wrote all day. Yesterday too. And the day before. But when a piece grows too long, when I start writing and writing and writing, yet not finishing, I become like the woman who knits into eternity, but she can only knit a sleeve, nothing else. No form, only disintegration, and swirls of words making me dizzy and mad. Maybe it all lacks meaning.

Perhaps I’m off base about everything, because I lack the mind to look at this squarely, or at all. My mind ceases to form narrative. Grief feels like rage, or nothingness.

One silver lining, I suppose, is we not longer have to work to demonstrate that a perfectly monstrous spirit possesses the globalists.
I am shocked, nauseous, stiff with worry, about what has transpired in Canada.

We no longer have nations, we only have places where the globalists are worse than in other places, at the moment.

In the silence, I imagine long lost friends writing to say:

“I see it now.”

But they haven’t, and they won’t. Not even if these monsters actually blow up the world. It will still be a matter of thanking them for their relentless battle against The “Virus” or The Russians. Or “climate change.” We will always be wrong, they—the professional catastrophist class— will always be right. Let’s face it. They’re always right because they’re always creating the catastrophes.

Traumatizing narcissism—always right. And born that way.

Not a shred of doubt, or light; No complexity of thought. No struggle. Just the hammering, hammering sound of those platitudes of theirs, which all amount more or less to:

“Hang yourselves, for all we care. Do the planet a favor.”

The brutality, audacity, and insanity are too great to react to, words no longer suffice.

I didn’t want to admit that the events in Canada turned my mind upside down, and I lost the “plot.”

I’m pretty sure we all feel this way.

I had, still have, an exclusive story about BJ Dichter, from somebody in our substack family. I hope you will still read it tomorrow.

Writing is, in a sense, seeking to create order, justice, seeking clarity. It depends upon some semblance of these things existing also in the world around us, and today that got knocked out. I always believed that if a writer can’t offer hope he should not write.

“Naturally, I prefer someone who feels but does not write, to someone who writes but does not feel.”

—Marina Tsvetaeva

Can’t somebody arrest Justin Trudeau?

Can’t somebody remove that Chrystia Freeland woman and say: “Listen. You make the world too awful when you speak, so please stop at once. You’re both insane.”

She makes me appreciate Jen Psaki.

She says here that the Canadian government “needs” to be in permanent control of crowdfunding. Of charitable donations. She calls this one of her “tools.” She is declaring the “emergency” (of people holding differing political and social feelings) to be permanent. Just like “boosters.”

Tim Pool @Timcast

Chrystia Freeland: "In order to ensure our security and continuing stability, Canada will be reorganized into the first Galactic Empire, for a safe and secure society, which I assure you will last for ten thousand years."

Ezra Levant 🍁🚛 @ezralevant

Trudeau’s deputy, Chrystia Freeland, who is also a director of Klaus Schwab’s World Economic Forum, says she plans to make her emergency powers permanent. https://t.co/g8JTCwzmqX

I think this is karmic revenge for how we treated the lobsters.

The lobsters?

Yes.

When my son was very young he grew distraught over the hideous sight of the lobster tank in the supermarket. They were all in a pile, and their claws were bound with rubber bands. My son suggested we dress up as lobsters and pile on top of whichever government official was in charge of letting this happen to them, and then, when enough of us were piled on top of him, tie his hands and feet with rubber bands.

I have always felt that we deserve whatever we get, every time I pass that lobster tank. And it made me think surely, it’s coming. What chance did they have?

I’ll leave you with a favorite Tranströmer poem called “To Friends Behind A Frontier,” that he wrote for two friends trapped in what was then GDR. The poem, like so many Tranströmer poems, speaks to the impossibility of achieving expression. It’s also about censorship, grief, longing, friends, and yes—tyranny.

This one goes out to all of you, but especially those of you here who are Canadian. I can’t quite imagine how you are dealing with this ghastly rape of everything sacred, by that boy in a blue suit who seems more and more like a victim of MK Ultra.

He’s not acting normal, at all. This is very, very scary.

Here’s the poem:

To Friends Behind A Frontier

1

I wrote so meagerly to you. But what I couldn’t write

swelled and swelled like an old-fashioned airship

and drifted away at last through the night sky.

2

The letter is now at the censor’s. He lights his lamp.

In the glare my words fly up like monkeys on a grille,

rattle it, stop, and bare their teeth.

3

Read between the lines. We’ll meet in 200 years

when the microphones in the hotel walls are forgotten

and can at last sleep, become trilobites.

Paths, 1973