Had lunch with Mary featured in the medicine, healers and shamans vs. God post and learned she is from Birmingham and a bloodline of women who simply know things other people do not know.
Mary said some years ago she got a flash that her daughter would be killed by her boyfriend, and then it happened, and her other children prayed for God to go get the killer, but she prayed, “'Vengeance is mine, said the Lord', and that is the stand I take.” Not long after, Mary learned the boyfriend was dead. I said it was her prayer that brought about that result, not her children’s prayers.
We discussed the difference in telling God what to do, and asking in the name of the Christ that God intervene in something.
Mary asked me how I will vote in November? I said no one: I cannot vote for war criminals, who aid and abet Israel in Gaza; and I cannot abide Trump, who is possessed by a demon. Trump is contagious. A demon is messing with Biden and Harris, and they are contagious.
Imagine Trump wins in November and then dies of natural or unnatural causes and JD Vance is president.
Imagine Trump, Biden and Harris die tomorrow of natural or unnatural causes.
Which scenario to you think I prefer?
In the name of the Christ, I ask for a Divine Intervention in America. God’s will, not mine, be done.
Former US Attorney Joyce Vance published at her Civil Discourse Newsletter the other day, and I replied.
Rejecting Violence, But Only When It's Directed At YouJOYCE VANCE
What do you do when the protectee won’t listen to reason?
Read →
Sloan BashinskyIf Harris wins, Trump and his allies will not concede the election. Election officials aligned with Trump will not surrender. The courts will decide it, ultimately the Supreme Court. For that reason, Biden already should have resigned and allowed Harris to be sworn is as president to put her in a stronger position as sitting president, instead of simply the Democrat candidate. That they did not do that causes me to think Biden and Harris are dimwitted. Even as Biden continues to help Israel in Gaza and edge ever closer to World War III, which is how Biden will be remembered by time. He is a war criminal already, under the aiding and abetting doctrine, Joyce. Anyone who passed a criminal law exam in law school knows that, even if they won’t admit it. My criminal law professor at the University of Alabama School of Law was Clinton McGhee, who after graduating from that law School, went into the US Army and was sent to Nuremberg, where he defended Nazis very well, until he was switched to prosecuting them very well.
Americans who cannot see the similarity between Adolf Hitler’s rise to power and Trump’s rise to power are blinded by and being taken over by the demon that saved Trump twice from assassins, so far. Americans who cannot see what is happening to Biden and Harris are blinded and being taken over by a demon, as well.
From Eric Rotten Rittenberry’s Poetic Outlaws Substack yesterday, September 21, the Fall Equinox, about what will cause the death of humanity- civilization.
Larimer Street Bar
By: Erik Rittenberry
POETIC OUTLAWSSEP 20, 2024My Red Wings are stilldusty from a six day saunter
in the Rocky Mountains
as I walk into a Larimer Street bar
in Denver where hipsters drink craft
beer on weekday afternoons.
I sit amid blurred faces and gaze into
the eyes of the cultured youth. The men
wear flowered shirts with slim jeans
cutoff at the shins and the women
are young and half-pretty and
and they have dark tattoos on their
skull white skin and their chats
are filled with frivolous gossip
that splash their burgeoning
existence with a sense of
significance.
They are at odds now with everything
they will one day become.
The beers I sip help cope with
the sights and sounds around me.
It’s only been a few hours
since I left behind the mountains
and the vast meadows
and the stars and moon
and the untainted air that held me
for the last few days, and I already
feel like hell.
I’d rather be on the trail, alone again,
surrounded by wildflowers, instead,
I’m in the city and the city demands
compliance and submission
and I’m not good
at either.
It’s hard to breathe here.
It only takes a few nights sleeping
beneath the stars, totally enshrouded
in nature to realize how bounded
we've become within the pages
of a collective illusion, alienated
and at odds with our primordial
flame, wandering lost in a cold,
desacralized world.
We dwell in a fabricated reality,
suffer afflictions of our own creation,
and scramble after remedies spun
from the same cloth.
The daunting words of Emersonloom in my brain: The end of the
human race will be that it will
eventually die of civilization.
The drastic division, the tides
of chaos, the cultural malaise
we see today are the climactic
echoes of an unhinged epoch
approaching its inevitable
fate.
Blind obedience is a crutch for the
weak-kneed. Security is hemlock
to the spirit. The chains we
carry around are about
to get heavier.
Just around the corner from where I sit
is a row of tents lined on the sidewalks
inhabited by demented vagrants. A man
with no teeth and no shoes gives the
middle finger to a light pole. A whore
strides past the bar window with scarred
heels and smeared lipstick across
her cheek.
The creatures of the night are alive
looking for a small win.
Across the street there’s a business
party going on at an elegant bar
where intoxicated hotshots with
gaunt souls conversate on careers
and the shape of the economy
and the upcoming presidential
election.
I look out at the corner and see two policemen
lingering over a double amputee man
who is flailing on the pavement
bellowing incoherent jargon
under the street lights.
It’s all too much.
I want to flee to the mountains
and lie down on the pine-needled
floor of the forest in the sweet
shade of a Douglas Fir like
I did the day before.
I want to sip cold creek water and
reacquaint myself with the
fragmented light of sunrise
coming through the aspens
at dawn.
I want to be serenaded once again by
the warbling of the ancient birds
high up in the Ponderosa Pine.
I want to remain where life is
sacred and wild
and devoid of the awful stench
of an ailing culture.
My flight leaves in the morning. I down
my last sip of beer and walk out into the
dark night as the sirens close in.
Somewhere the Chrysanthemums are
blooming in the late summer
wind. It’s not here.
Thanks so much for reading. You can find me around the internet at the following:
Medium: https://medium.com/@erikrittenberry
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/erik.rittenberryInstagram: https://www.instagram.com/erik_rittenberry/
Sloan BashinskyLiked by Poetic OutlawsFuck all, Erik.
You and Emerson nailed it.
I wish I were younger and could flee to the mountains,
although when once I fled to Nepal
and all the way up to Annapurna Base Camp,
the Christ was there, waiting for me,
not sure Christendom could tolerate that Blacksmith,
and I was sent back down that beautiful Nature Trail
having no clue what kind of hells waited on earth and inside me.
I thought then that America was quite fucked up,
but had no clue how bad, it turned out,
Much the same, me.
That’s where it always returns.
Me.
But it is absolutely necessary to observe and report
what’s around me, too.
Ciao
sloanbashinsky@yahoo.com
No comments:
Post a Comment