Stockholm Syndrome, internet-style

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This is Stockholm, and you likely live there. It’s cold.

THE INTERNET is a vital element of our lives, and it affects the way we think in a major way.

As most everyone knows, mega-businesses like Facebook, Twitter, Google, YouTube (owned by Google), LinkedIn and many more embrace the ideology of the radical left. And they use their stunningly wide reach to indoctrinate nonsense and censor while simultaneously enriching themselves.

They are smart people. The left is far smarter than the right, which is often boneheadedly stupid and walks straight into the clutches of the left.

Since leftists control academia, much of business, all of entertainment and, of course, the internet,* they directly or indirectly influence the thought processes of everyone, even conservatives who should know better.

I think we’re looking at a sort of Stockholm Syndrome. I’ll assume you know what this is. If not, click on the link.

How else to explain the conservatives’ blind spots on vital issues.

  1. Conservatives, with some exceptions (me being one), persist in referring to leftists as “liberals” and “progressives,” which is arrant nonsense. I am fond of Dennis Prager’s quote: The usurpation of the word “liberal” by the left has been a catastrophe. Even conservative firebrands like Ann Coulter often refer to leftists as liberals and progressives. Shame on her.
  2. Conservative news websites such as Breitbart, The Washington Times, The Daily Caller, Ben Shapiro’s The Daily Wire, well, pretty much everyone, place links on their sites to “share” on Facebook, Twitter, Google, LinkedIn, etc. Even though there are numerous, new, conservative alternatives to those public-relations mouthpieces for the Democrat Party, the conservative sites snooze in the leftists’ beds and plug them daily. Shameful.

I’m guessing that you too suffer from Stockholm Syndrome, internet-style. I would wager my wages that you have a Facebook account, probably Twitter too. You know they are evil, but you cannot pull yourself away because your friends are there, your “friends” too. And all those cute videos of puppies.

Oh, the flowers and recipes!

You know that if you switch to up-and-coming alternatives, especially those devoted to free speech and that don’t sell your data, and you invite your friends to follow you there that they will not. They cannot. They’re caught in Stockholm.

The Masters of the Universe, as the leftist social media are accurately labeled, maintain that position due to the massive number of accounts they possess and profit from. If one of those accounts is yours, you reside in snowy Stockholm.

Like it or not, know it or not, there is a war under way. The violence level currently is low, but it will escalate. When the war is done, and we are victorious as we will be, there will be consequences.

At best, you will be paraded through the streets with your head shaved. At worst, you will be shot. Avoid this. Free yourself. Choose a side.

Don’t be a collaborator.

* * * *

* But not the White House, much to their endless horror.

Cool, golden nights of waning summer

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Outside, of course. Yesterday.

JUST TODAY and tomorrow remain of summer.

Autumn starts Saturday.

Typically for this date, we have lots of flowers and good smells, which attracts hummingbirds. They occasionally get so excited they bump into windows. I’ve never seen one dead or stunned on the ground so they must possess hard heads.

Here again are shots of our golden datura, the one that sits just outside the bedroom window. When the window is open, which it is when it’s not too cold, the datura aroma enters the bedroom. This is a sweet way to sleep.

In three or four months, the first overnight freeze will deliver a withering blow to this bush, and I’ll cut it back to a nub of a trunk. But not to worry! It’ll rejuvenate itself next Spring. The cycle of life.

It’s good to live this way.

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From inside the bedroom. Also yesterday.

Memories of beasts gone by

I WAS AWAKE before 6 this morning and listening to the chickens.

I have a history with chickens.

The poultry next door are the most recent. Around 6 or so, they begin to wake up and converse. It’s not the rooster, which has a distinctive morning call. No, it’s the hens, which also explains the constant chatter from their apple tree roost.

I was born in Atlanta, but I’ve hardly ever lived there. My parents and my sister lived in Atlanta for decades, but not me. When I was about six months old, we left Atlanta and headed to my maternal grandparents’ 500-acre farm in Southwest Georgia between the towns of Sylvester and Albany.

In later decades my parents and my sister returned to Atlanta, but I never went back except to visit. It’s a beautiful city, especially in the Fall.

Among the Herefords, rabbits and cats on the farm (we never messed with pigs and there was just one dog. I’ll get to him later) there were chickens, about 2,000 of them at one time.

The chickens were my father’s doing. He intended to make a living off chickens while becoming a famous writer. Neither of those notions panned out.

One dark summer night in Georgia, a large chunk of those 2,000 chickens was stolen. I remember Sheriff Andy and Deputy Fife standing in the kitchen the following morning. We never did get those chickens back.

New ImageDuring those chicken days, my father would give me baby chicks that he figured were not going to survive.  You read that right. My father gave me dying chicks as pets, and they did. Die, that is.

But I played nursemaid with each for a few days, keeping them in shoeboxes. They didn’t look ill to me when I got them. But they always died.

On that farm, we raised rabbits for profit, but my sister and I had one rabbit we considered a pet. We named him Rusty due to his color. One afternoon at dinner, as we were finishing up, it came out that we had just eaten Rusty.

I’ve written about some of these events, years ago, so it may sound familiar.

There was a dog on the farm too. He was named Pepper. He was a frisky, middle-sized dog of unknown mongrel heritage, and the only (almost) dog my sister and I ever were allowed to have.

Pepper was still there when we left the farm after six years. We then saw him only during our frequent visits up from Florida.

For First Grade I went to a Catholic school in Albany, even though we were not Catholics. Between First and Second grades, we abandoned farm life — chickens, cats*, Pepper, rabbits, Herefords — and moved to Jacksonville, Florida.

I never lived in proximity to poultry again. Till now.

The neighbors’ apple tree in which they roost abuts the property wall, and the chickens on occasion jump down to our yard and walk around. I’m not fond of this because chickens are nasty animals, and then there’s the poop.

But their visits are short, and they’re capable of the brief flight back to the apple tree, back to their own home where they belong.

Especially when I shoo them!

And every morning they greet dawn with chatter, reminding me that I once lived with their ancestors, thousands of the bloody things.

* * * *

* Sometimes there were up to 25 cats!

Bones, hair, cobblestones & cheese

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I was sitting on the Jesus Patio when I shot this guy nearby.

AUTUMN ARRIVES on Saturday, but we’ve already started Fall.

In our hearts, if not in celestial reality.

The leaves are dropping from the peach tree, littering the Jesus Patio, making more work for me, not appreciated.

I like the photo above, so I’ve added it to the header.

Unrelated to fall is that we’ve now entered the third week of my child bride’s broken arm, caused by a fall. The doctor said the cast would stay in place from four to six weeks. We are praying, of course, for four.

The biggest challenge, certainly for me, but for her too, it seems, is her mop of hair. She cannot arrange it to her satisfaction with one hand.

So that leaves me.

We’ve come to verbal blows over this matter.

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Disheveled on an early morning in Mexico City.

Here she is sitting in our Mexico City condo three years ago. Her hair has not been cut since, so you can imagine. It’s not only long, much longer now than in this photo, but it is quite curly. You might even call it kinky.

We’ve had quite a few emotionally challenging moments due to this mop.

Her getting both her arms back in action cannot come too soon.

Matrimonial bliss hangs on it.

* * * *

And furthermore …

As I’ve written on various occasions, our town is renovating streets, especially around the spectacular plaza.

This has been going on for y-e-a-r-s. Three at least. Nonstop.

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Just yesterday on the third side of the plaza.

Laying the cobblestones, and sidewalk renovation too, has been completed on two sides of the plaza. Above, you see the third side, and they’ve dug up all the old stones on the fourth, the side that abuts my family coffee shop. We’re in the rainy season, so we have an abundance of mud.

The Goddess willing, this will end before I die.

* * * *

Moving on to cheese

cheese
This is queso seco.

One of the many great things about living south of the Rio Bravo is the abundance of great avocados or, as we call them, aguacates. Another is cheese or, as we call it, queso. We Mexicans love our queso.

Visitors are cautioned to avoid cheese. Sometimes it’s not pasteurized, maybe most of the time. I pay that warning not a lick of attention.

The cheese in the photo is called queso seco or dry cheese. We bought it here on the mountaintop, but recently we found a very small store that sells only cheese on a street corner in the capital city.

The cheese is unrefrigerated, and on our first visit we found wheels of various cheeses sitting on the floor. This would appall a persnickety person, but we bought a quarter kilo, which was exceptionally tasty.

We took it home, ate it happily, and did not die.