things on time

Her rhythm is true and her grace is sublime, she is Dah'zhou – mistress of all things on-time. She favors such people as know when to wake, like soldiers and doctors and persons who bake, like teachers and bankers and most household staff, who wake up at dawn before drawing a bath. She rides with her sister – fair, rose-fingered Dawn – in a golden chariot they're pulled along, that's spanned to two felines who lift soft paws high as they race and scamper across morning's sky. The two make much merriment while they complete their circuits through sunshine, rain, hail, wind, and sleet, sheltered from the weather and foul airs without in an airborne, golden, and mobile redoubt. Dah'zhou keeps no log-book, she gives few rewards, she won't punish people who would rather snore than get up and get out and tackle the day, who choose between warm, downy covers to stay. Instead she's been known to bring to life inside such persons who wake early an honest pride that stays with them long after darkness descends, that buoys their labors and infects their friends. So next time you find yourself wanting to snooze, remember there is more to gain than to lose, by waking up early and fleeing from bed with joy in your heart and a clear, rested head.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

mountains of riches

Ours is a robust, diverse economy; we farm many bushes, not just one main tree. In our desert regions grow figs, sheep, and dates; in Iysh are planted vast hectares of grapes; from Grig (our fine capital) clear to the west is where we've found apples and barley grow best. We harvest mine tailings left over from when the Soviets enslaved our shortest, strongest men and sent them to toil deep down underground where mountains of riches and death could be found. There are many minerals, some rare-earth too, there's goose, duck, and rabbit that taste good in stew, for curries and turmeric we're widely famed, for pelts, shoes, and pouches sewn from wild-caught game. These things are protected by a ministry (the People's Collective for Rock, Beast, and Tree) that answers to all citizens living here in a referendum at least once a year. We import as few foreign goods are we can, preferring to till, mine, and milk our land. To keep ourselves free from state-sponsored invaders we plant rice, beans, eggplant, corn, squash, and potaters. We're looking for labor, we pay well and fair, we're not prone to suffer from food shortage scares, so come to Grigovia ye one and all, 'till now we've avoided the global free-fall that's plaguing our neighbors, our friends wide and far, who now wish to steer by our small nation's star. All hail to the Goddesses who number Ten, for how they have blessed us and our verdant fen, we lift up our praises, we make offerings, we give thanks for living like queens and like kings.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

one still thirsting

There are many flavors that confuse the mind, that leave one still thirsting and (worse) fully blind, that take from the essence and beauty of life, that just lead to anger and heartbreak and strife. When facing such foul, dastardly temptation you dare not but one of the Goddesses shun for they each can help you in strong, subtle ways to hold onto Happiness through darkest days. Next time you find something too good to be true, then ask yourself 'What would Nuuzstathena do?', then wait for the answer but don't look for it, for there's little good comes from searching for shit. A priestess can help you to listen and learn, to understand why you still want, lust, and yearn, to lessen the burden we know as ego, to live life in Beauty and go with its flow. So seek out a mentor, have no fear to ask, have no fear to drink from fair Aprodit's flask, to lay down with Mu'untha or hitch your wagon to Dah'zhou who rides on a golden dragon. The process is easy once you make it start, so feel with your instinct and trust in your heart that there's no such thing as a curse or bad luck so long as you truly do not give a fuck who may be there watching while you stop and pray – there's no time to waste so get to it today.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

and filling repast

On acres of grounds and in countless displays we tell mankind's story from then to today, at least from the view of Grigovia's past, please come for a stroll or just run through real fast. About half the people that come here do so their learning and knowledge and culture to grow, the others (like tourists) just dash on fleet feet – they'd rather relax, rest their bones, drink, and eat. A restaurant lies at the end of the tour that one cannot reach but through our big front doors, we did this because of an honest desire to have people eat well of learning's hot fire; to fill their minds first and their intestines last; to see to their double and filling repast. We have cloth, tool, weapon, and art galleries that sprawl under soaring vaults and swooping eaves, that are filled with treasures made by man and not, that we strain to preserve from foul, creeping rot. The resto serves tchuirff and fine food and good eats, from Iysh in the north to Gar Nuuzsh in the east, some snacks from the south and bites from Pyltagrad, please try them then sit back both sated and glad. We hope you will visit the National Vault, if not though it is your own damnable fault, there is no set fee so please pay what you like, food prices are kept low (sans seasonal spikes). Buses transport daily to our vast compound from just about every city and town. We hope you will come soon and witness what's grand about our beloved Grigovian land.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

Ħ-'Ɨº×ïǂш¡Ɏ¡шǂï׺Ɨ'-Ħ

he was just a peon, a low-level thug, who'd pee in the corner and soil the rug

of being alive

At each Yiptlong entrance is a special gate built with local rockfall, mostly shale or slate. They are rarely swung shut, they're seldom locked tight, even through the longest and darkest of nights. They don't serve the purpose of keeping man out instead it's their duty to remind about the transepts and doorways we transit each day while making our mortal, carefree human way. So next time when passing a gate pause a bit, put down what you're doing and have a short sit, take one or two moments to empty your mind, allow all your passions to slowly unwind. Each time will be different, each time something new, with practice a calmness will come over you, that you can take with you the rest of your way, please give it a try without further delay.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

a grand parade

Next month we shall honor our self-liberation with grand parades and nation-wide celebrations. Back in October (1944) were Nazis and Soviets poised at our door, both waiting for the proper moment to strike our miles of trenches and defensive dikes. They had not intruded far into our ken before of a sudden two groups of women – old ladies and mothers with knives in their teeth – had sprung from some fighting-holes deep in the heath. They'd stalled the advance of our two deadly foes, had dampened his ardor and bloodied his nose, had halted a moment the oncoming Blitz with screams in their bosoms and milk in their tits. Now cautious and wary the foe did advance after having cleaned up his soiled underpants, with eyes stapled open and fear in his veins did he get to moving his armored war-trains. He entered a country stripped from peak to fell; its bridges torn down and poison in its wells; its bounty eroded; its people vanished; its fine reputation besmirched and tarnished. Before he could settle and plan strategy emerged from the tunnels (ordered, silently) a vast local army armed just with its hands to drive the base enemies out of its lands. To maximize its psychological fright it struck in the darkest deep hour of night and tore out the hearts of its enemies two with tactics both ancient and brand-spanking new. Now armed with his shiny, slick war-making tools the bold rebel army gave chase to the fools who had dared to enter into its domain and gave him good reason to not come again. We are very grateful for the sacrifice of all those brave warriors who joined in the fights, who made sure that we all – that you, him, and me – could stand here rejoicing, happy, proud, and free.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

its raw volunteers

The 9th Mountain Rangers are calling to arms all young men and women from cities and farms, from hamlets, skyscrapers, suburbs near and far, there's no need to prepare just come as you are. The 9th has been shaping its raw volunteers into hardened soldiers for 200 years, first formed during conflict in 1813 ours is still a tight-knit and family-like team. We instruct in aspects of modern war-making, in subterfuge and guerrilla undertakings, in sabotage, hacking, and counter-surveillance, in cleanliness, honor, and marching in phalanx. Our uniforms blend into rock-face and soil; our pride is deep-rooted in blood, sweat, and toil; we ask that you lend us your muscles and ears; your sweethearts will greet you with music and cheers. Come visit our offices in Grig's downtown, come join this here unit, increase its renown, protect our dear borders from enemies base and help us to defend our glorious race.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

in her bones

Afloat in the swollen, wide Yalung River, in her heart much fear, in her bones a shiver, she begged to the Goddess, the most graceful one, to save her from certain death and destruction. The waves and swift currents whipped up by the storm, did toss and abuse her near-limp human form, they threatened to drag her down into the deeps, into a vast, endless, encompassing sleep. Then just as her hope and last fragments of power had fled and the bells were tolling her last hour there was a deep calm in the skies suddenly whereupon she once again uttered her plea. 'Please help me, dear Goddess, I know that you're near, my heart is still clamped in unshakable fear, I know you are merciful, graceful, and true, please tell me what in this here peril to do.' The answer came not in words, symbols, or talk, the maiden though found she could suddenly walk, with tentative steps she then fled from the flood with tears in her eyes and a heat in her blood. Just moments thereafter she built a small shrine right there on the banks to give thanks for divine help and intervention from a nameless force that saved her from a downward spiraling course.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

on Grigovian energy

Vast wind farms abound on the Great Barren Plain where few people live and thus fewer complain. They're built to high standards of technology, can capture such gusts as would barely move trees. Deep wells also tap into geo-therm heat (through cycles that are on an endless repeat) by pulling hot water from deep underground and using its steam to send turbines around. Solar collectors dot the Great Dune Sea, all gathering photons by day, silently, but these must be washed and always cleaned of dust lest they should develop a light-blocking crust. There's coal in our mountains, some wide seams of it, but we're not much into just burning the shit. We'd rather turn algae into diesel fuel or harness sources that are renewable. All things that make power are owned and belong to each native person born in the Yiptlong, or brought to life within our national borders – to all of Grigovia's fine sons and daughters. We've set up a true non-profit corporation to make sure that all electricity won gets doled out and shared without too much corruption lest there should flare up a vast social eruption. GriSol is its shortened, legitimate name, to honor the source whence all life truly came, invest in our future and make our land great, together we can all mankind elevate.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

warm cloudy flagons

Straight back to the top of majestic Grigung return all the gods from each mission far-flung. They race duly to there after saving towns, after doing acts of daring and renown, after bravely rescuing kids from a fire or climbers who'd got lost among craggy spires. They live in a place that no mortal can see, high above the region where grow no more trees; their houses and balés, their mansions and domes are modest and practical, welcoming homes. They drink only warm, cloudy flagons of mead, their wounds close up quickly and they rarely bleed, from us puny mortals but two things they need: virtuous behavior and a lack of greed. To seal themselves off and keep enemies out they've fully encircled their lofty redoubt with a cloak of snake-skin and bright amethyst that's known to man-children only as Graegist. Oumbast is the trickster, the fool of the bunch, she causes cruel chaos if she should miss lunch, she lives by herself in a barn made of stone where she can chase rodents and curl up alone. The other gods they mostly get along well, for close to each other they still choose to dwell, there is in fact little they complain about, except of course Oumbast and base human louts. Please use of this knowledge, please share it freely, and plunge into prayer with a newfound glee, for the gods are watching and listening too to all that we whisper and all that we do.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

upon fancy bedding

Through most of the lifetime of young Aprodit she'd been with the local boys a major hit. They 'd chased her and followed her every move and were always trying their merits to prove. For her part though Aprodit did not care much for men and their urges, for penis and such, instead she far rather would lay with a lass upon fancy bedding or just on the grass. When boys and men found out the truth about it, they chastised and chased away fair Aprodit, who picked up and vanished all too willingly, who made a new home for herself and her ilk, where to love each other they'd always be free.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

this fragment remains

Here follows an excerpt from an old address, this fragment remains but we have lost the rest. “[T]hat We here assembled must ne'er again see such offensive, blatant, cruel brutality. Therefore let Us rise up and pass this decree, please hear to my missive and supplicant plea, so We in this innocent community shan't wallow in pity much robbed of our glee. Henceforth shall to Vagabonds entrance be barred, likewise to all peoples whose faces are scarred or pitted and wrought by the Traveling Pox, who go about barefoot without shoes or socks. Offenders of these Our justified laws will be forthwith chased down by Large, Vicious dogs and thrown into cellars where they'll surely rot, and howl out in madness and curse at their lot. These rules and conditions must be fully known, therefore let them be hung to gate, tree, and home, and posted where all Passers-By them can see; it is with Pure Hearts that We pass this decree.“

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

and brightest night

She won't be heard coming, with licks cleans herself, is curious, cunning, and likes a high shelf. She climbs in the treetops, has no fear of height, can see well in darkest day and brightest night. Her hearing's exquisite, her sense of smell too, she'll play with the laces that hang from a shoe, she is always watching and can simply vanish as if she'd been from this our universe banished. We honor her coming by petting her fur, by pulling out insects and prickers and burrs, we cherish our Goddess whose love transcends caste, come join us and celebrate slender Oumbast.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥