the Yiptlong blooms

Summer is arriving, please come when you can, great wonders wait for you in glen and mountain. Where in snowy seasons people slide and ski are now blooming meadows, a green landlocked sea, it's ideal for trekking and all things outdoor, for biking and climbing and oh so much more. There's waterfalls, caving, and hang-gliding too, the whole Yiptlong massif stands open to you, the lodgings are many and don't cost a lot, the locals are friendly and share what they've got. It's legal to set up one's camp anywhere, to dally awhile without fret or care, upon the low grasslands or on the high steppe, on sun-blasted rock face and places wind-swept. Each roadway runs parallel to a footpath, where mounts and bike riders pedestrians pass, upon which not one motor-vehicle goes, to these swift contraptions the footpath is closed. Our spires, escarpments, and lake country too, will give any visitor enough to do, Grigovia gladly extends her welcome, to all and to many, to everyone.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

mass of gray

Caught up in the middle of outside confusion the man settled on just one single conclusion: that it was his duty to well harmonize the mass of gray tissue stuck behind his eyes. He was not sure whether to take or start fighting the hurled accusations constantly alighting upon his own psyche where they'd never to stick, where they'd never make his emotions get sick. He lifted his eye-sockets up the Goddesses, filled his soul with their love and smelled their tresses then steeled himself forthwith for unending battle – at least till the day when he'd sound his death-rattle. Long was his Happiness, deep his devotion, to spirit and ancestor, Mother and ocean, to Truthfulness and to what he saw as Right, with these things he struggled, though, daytime and night. In time he lost surety and most conviction while making improvements in posture and diction, on some of his words those around him did choke, while laughing straight at him and not at his jokes. This, then, was his destiny, purpose, and lot, to sit alone, silent, unblinking, and not to let the distractions of mortal existence assist in or dampen his steady persistence in search of elusive and shadowy clues that lead to the great and unknowable Wu.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

nothing to lose

Oh Goddesses help me to clear out this dross, to mourn for my vast gentle innocence lost, to forgive those people who harm and abuse, to know that I've truly got nothing to lose. I now count my blessings, and cherish my health, I'm learning to be kind to and love myself, for that is the purpose of life, I have found, all that one must learn prior to bedding down, in a piney box six feet deep underground. Please carry me, Ladies, along this my path, and stay for the moment Fate's powerful wrath, for I am your servant, your ward, and your son, a dastardly fool if there ever was one. Huzzah.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

portals that point

A feast-day is coming to honor the goddess who keeps our hearts healthy who constantly blesses the whims and the actions of all of us mortals as we made decisions and venture through portals that point us toward riches or into harm's way – her touch is far-reaching, this much we can say. Therefore in the last week of this month of June, shed all of your worries and concerns and gloom, pour out some libations and raise up a song, to that blessed goddess who knew all along, the errors and joys that we'd see on our way, all hail Nuuzstathena, who brightens each day.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on flying kites

Bright kites how they flutter, on wind draft and breeze, they rise to the heavens with visible ease. They serve many purposes, more than just show – they hamper and confound, they disrupt and slow all but those rank warplanes that fly really high, that fuck with our airspace and peer through the sky. The flying of kites started out as a game, it was once just child's play, merely a jest, but now that the Ynki's foul tyranny grows, this pure, simple hobby is serious business. Kites come in all colors, that make the rainbow, they help bring sweet blessings to us down below, for they are an avenue up to the gods, to help hapless mortals who stumble and plod. Join a kite flying club, or found one new, to raise a bright kite is the cool thing to do, you'll defend the nation and coddle the powers that shelter us humans through all of our hours. This is our tradition here in well-planned Grig, hoist aloft a flying-thing, not small but big, and watch as your fortunes and Happiness grow, so long as the earth it turns and the winds blow.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on burning sandals

This footwear's infected, it burns my dermis, I suffer its damaging, poisonous kiss. It's just on the right side, the left foot is fine, at one point I'd stepped on a shiny-leaved vine, or brushed up against a patch of poison oak, that promptly with oils my sandal did soak. I have tried to wash them, with liquid and bar, the next step I think will be clear vinegar, to cancel the compounds that ravage my skin, but if that too fails they'll go into the bin. It is just not worth it, to suffer and cope, to wash and to scrub them with vigor and soap, to try and eradicate chemical traces that lurk in the foam and hide under the laces. Last night I moved into a seedy hotel, these sandals they irritate and itch like hell, the dollars I spent renting a door that closes I could well have used to buy new shoes and clothes. That is in the past though, I have no regrets, I've learned not to hanker or worry or fret, therefore I will change out these horrible shoes, and cease with my endless and woebegone blues.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on crafting temples

There's not much more to it, I daresay I've found, than sticking a bit of wood into the ground, or erecting monoliths, small though they be, or hanging some rolled-up twigs onto a tree. Grigovian goddesses take what they can, knowing that all the best efforts of man do sometimes fall short of the outcomes intended, for they only care that the homefront's defended. The goddesses fancy not churches or pageants, priests droning on and on chasing down tangents, sycophants, hangers-on, gem-stones or gold, groups of new converts or ones getting old. All our fair maidens, the Goddesses Ten, who shelter the lowly and brighten our ken, are simple to pray to and easy to please, preferring us standing to down on our knees. It is hard to battle and drive away foes, when wearing too fancy or delicate clothes, so leave off with fashion and don something that you don't care gets torn, ripped, or covered with scat. To please them be watchful, and ready to act, against us the odds will most surely be stacked, so open those peepers and keep your hand steady while praising their greatness, always at the ready.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on abounding goddesses

Grigovian goddesses, everywhere, in meadows and treetops and under the stairs, so many that even the priests can't keep track, fair beauties who make up for what humans lack. They simply keep coming, and showing up new, which leaves us poor mortals but one thing to do: accept them and puzzle out some of their ways, then set aside for them their own holidays, then keep up with sacrifice, prayers, and chants, while wearing our jackets and cravats and pants. We preen and we dress up, we wear well-made threads, lest goat tractor sibling should one day fall dead, struck down by a goddess, her confidence flawed, whom we'd never worshiped, who'd not left us awed. We labor to please them, we do all we can, we hang fragrant garlands and strike up the band, we hope though that one day there may be enough, that we might get back to our business and stuff. We love them regardless, we're glad that they're here, the new ones and those that have blessed us for years, we'll lift to the heavens vociferous praise, until our last moments, the end of our days.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on making progress

The foodstuff is rotten, the hull springs more leaks, we've been at this voyage for too many weeks. Our compass was shattered, there's no land in sight, the stars help us navigate during the night, in daytime we mostly just jostle about, afflicted by scurvy, Bell's palsy, and gout. We pray for salvation and women in dresses, all made up and perfumed with dangling tresses; the ropes are all fouled and the rudder's a mess, at least though we're making some decent progress. If you find this message then please do send help, the last land we sighted was St. Maarten's Isle, from there to the west we've been drifting a while, at least for a fortnight plus one or two days, through downpour and cloud-bank, through strong winds and haze, we're all sick of staring at waves and sea-foam, and desperate to find a safe way back home.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥