The Empty Cup

When the cup is empty you want it full. My cup is empty. I am empty. I live in a desert, or at least my soul is there. It is not a hot desert, like Death Valley, but a dry one. It is Canada, a cold desert. There is water, but the sources are far away, places I do not know. Close to me, within range of my thirst, there is none. I can walk, I can drive, but the sources of water are dry. If there are others, I know not where. There is snow, of course. Canada has lots of snow this time of year, but the snow on the ground you cannot drink. It is poison. Contaminated with dog piss, N-person spit, and road salt. Better to die of thirst than die of that. Water, for the soul, comes in three forms: friendship, sex, and patriotism. There are fancy Latin terms for these (eros, patria, I think), but the empty cup I have is that of love of country, that despised affection called variously nationalism.



I live in the best country in the world. I do not think; actually, I know quite well, that I cannot, you cannot, say that. The circling leftists, be they harpies, vultures, or shrill shrieking gorgons, will swoop upon you and call you names. The names are various. They will report you to their political action committee where they get paid to create the illusion of working. Their secret combinations will place your name in a file, more damaging than anything the ten thumbed government could stumble together. If you are foolish in your pride in country at work, it could end up in your human resources file. Your promotions will be squashed. On the contrary, those that wrap their lips around the white guilt spigot will find themselves elevated above you. About that which you should be happy, proud, take refuge in when friendships or relationships are sour, you cannot. It is always sour. The public media, the rich elites, the illiterati of academia, all mix vinegar with gall in the acceptable bowls you can drink from when you thirst for some pride in country.

You should be proud of your country. If you are not proud, you are a rebel, plotting (or acting) to overthrow institutions, purge classes of men, exterminate tribes, secure borders or resources or industry. Being proud in secret eats upon the soul. Your refreshing drink of water is no longer pure. You become proud of your sect, tribe, clan, family, or lodge. And your impure water leads you to act to rebellion, by silence, by boycott, by subversion, to make the greater whole a reflection of your smaller, prouder part. The left has done a disservice to itself. Their ideals look fine on paper, their methods of infiltration, propaganda, and social engineering have lost sight of their own first principles. The nationalism of the fascist state, the Stalinists, the various dictators, they abhorred. Fair enough. But such an intoxicating drink as the fascists served up was never here. Now their scalded cat approach to the water of love of country has come back to bite them. A tipping point has been reached. Nationalism gathers again. Forcing it into the darkness, under the control of only one part of the political spectrum, is not wise. Do you think it wise? Those that love their country, who meet and share their affection only amongst trusted others, form their own secret combinations. The very darkness the leftists feared could well grow anew, nurtured by the drive to satisfy a thirst. Who knows what springs will be found by the thirsty? Lacking freedom of speech, we do not know the leanings of our neighbors.

The darkness the leftists fear is growing anew. The momentum of politics is well known. It moves right. Everything left is under attack. The leftist warlords are old and count the days till their golden retirement. Their legacy is hollow institutions. And hatred, hatred of their creatures. Their lesser creatures, the satraps, consuls, tribunes, and deputy assistants, are elevated for their ability at fellatio, not calculus, nor rhetoric, nor thought. The lesser generals are easy meat; they are long on sticky faced white guilt, and short on wits. They will fall fast and hard when the true leaders are gone. Which is soon. From the shadows of the desert created by the absence of freedom of speech, eyes watch. Intelligent, vengeful, and schooled in all the arts the leftists used to propagandize their way into the public purse. These new paladins have lists, and know full well the thirst of the common man for water, simple cool water, the water that slakes the thirst for pride in country.

I am resigned to the onset of doom. My cup is empty, and I fear I will fade before it can be filled. I fear not for the fate of the leftists, they are doomed. I will delight in their immolation. Darwin, the Darwin they used to clobber the Christians, will nod in agreement as they are marched, guilty of incompetence, the crime of dumb, to the execution ground. But what of the secret combinations that are forming in darkness to replace the dumb? They have water, and will fill my cup. But they serve other intoxicating beverages. What are they? The crack pates who exist in the undecided fog, who put an X beside Obama, are still crack pates without reading of Thomas Paine, Ayn Rand, nor Voltaire. Dumb they are. To whom will they give their next misguided allegiance? Saul Alinksy is spent, but what of Julius Streicher, John C. Calhoun, or Oliver Cromwell? Some of you, who can read, will say yes to this one and no to that one, but the mushy middle, who slavered after the lies of Alinsky, could just as well slaver after the lies of another. Hmmm.

I am thirsty, I need a drink. I go off on to a party. There, the star of the party, is a scholar, he speaks well of Oliver Cromwell. I will be curious to see how Old Nob can get repackaged. My cup is empty, and it might just get filled up. Other parties will favour other drinks. I am but one vote; what sugared, flavoured drink will the masses of dumb imbibe now that they thirst for water, thinking that green sweetened water is the same as the clear and pure?