omen and idol

There was once a bird that from ashes arose of which have been penned many mountains of prose. We too have this legend of starting again of picking up oneself with the help of friends or gods or just solo as many still do who find themselves wishing to start over new. We call it the Nixpe, tell of it in tales and tell of its many and colorful tails as it from dire ruins of what was once had does ascend with calls bright shrill frequent and glad. As omen and idol the Nixpe does serve for it is a curious magical bird that from all the failed plans of mice and of men does emerge and emerge again and again. In our northern cities and those in the south does this ancient story fill many a mouth, from western Pyltagrad to eastern Gar Nuuzsh (whose people have roots in the great Hindu Kusch) do they speak of Nixpe whenever they hear that for a dear project the ending is near. To accept this cycle of death and rebirth requires the ego to lose its wide girth and tap instead into immutable truth and give up its concrete-filled immobile berth. When failure turns fun then this life is a gas and anger and hardship are simply bypassed for such greener pastures that broaden the mind and free it of memories best left behind. If something should burn down don't stand there and cry just give it one more solid and heartfelt try for everything built up will crumble one day – trust in the recurrence of wondrous Nixpe.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

cloudy or blue

Her beauty was manifest honest and bright – it darkened the daytime and lit up the night. She first was discovered at the age of ten by a group of talent- and model-scout men who'd witnessed her coming back home from the health with her flock intact and a bag in her teeth. The bag contained queenswort dandelion sage and her stony features did belie her age for she had been out in the meadows all week with her sheep the greenest green pastures to seek. The men had heard rumors of a maiden fair all long slender limbs and bright blond flowing hair and in this young shepherd their quarry did find with thoughts of her success (and theirs) in their minds. She agreed to come with them, left then her home, but she was not happy in Saõ Paolo Rome New York Berlin Shanghai (where fashion is king) but wanted to go back and do her old thing. She stayed made some money quit after a year her glamorous empty clothes-wearing career, returned to her parents and to the High Wold and her messy bleating long-yearned-for sheepfold. She married a farmer who lived down the road and of their sweet offspring more stories were told – of beauty and gracefulness, modesty too, and life lived under the skies both cloudy or blue.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

old man Grilgamesh

There's an ancient story concerning man-flesh – it's of course the tale of old man Grilgamesh. He'd sat masturbating for most of his life while pining for company (maybe a wife) to share with him his sodden bed made of reeds to comfort him daily and meet all his needs. His story is epic, his seed made us all, and boosted our numbers while our race was small, not yet well established upon this here Earth, this rapidly spinning celestial berth. There arrived then Ink'Du, whom Eshtir had sent to help some good people and give them defense except that wild Ink-Du and old Grilgamesh soon wove themselves into a tight friendly mesh. The high times that they had would have made strippers blush for from peak to valley the drunk pair did rush consuming and partying with all they had two arm-in-arm brothers with wide smiles glad. Eshtir she was pissed because Grilgamesh had spurned ignored denied her a place in his bed whereupon she'd sent down a mad raging cow that was meant to kill never to pull a plow. Ink'Du and his buddy did slay that bovine which caused Ink'Du's life-web to quickly unwind whereupon Grilgamesh did mourn for his mate and curse all the gods for his fallen friend's fate. He holed himself up in a far hidden place while his building projects were finished apace and realized that power was paltry at best whereupon a weight of woe fell from his chest. We humans are flimsy, he realized anon, We must not rejoice at the battles we've won but cherish the friends that we get in this life and lay down our weapons and tools made for strife; to build and to construct great cities and works to stop being assholes mendicants and jerks is all we can strive for in this life of ours so please do tread lightly always smells the flowers – too short are the rest of these remaining hours.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

our good health

From sands in the east to deep muck in the west from wide southern plains to its northernmost crest our land is gray taupe verdant ocher basalt but we love its soils whatever their pall. With swamp-rat mountain-goat plains-goose desert-fox as well as fine salmon (that provides us lox) in every corner and every place has our fine Grigovia always been graced. On hill and in valley stream river and tree do we find abundance that makes us wealthy not with heaps of money but with something else – with freedom and foodstuffs to keep our good health. We know to be careful and not take too much to harvest only what our own limbs can clutch to leave for the children who are yet to come such bounty and riches that cannot be won that are righteous blessings sent down by the gods who smile upon us and buoy our odds. All hail then the Watchers who dole out the goods who wander our alleys and flit through our woods who knock on our door-jams when we least expect who've been known to meddle and to interject their whim and their fancy on we who must die on everyone from magnate to little guy. Their end-goal is shifty their methods are slick they make the lame healthy the solipsist sick they're here for the long haul and shall be endured and praised with the kindest and softest of words. We thank them here now and with this simple text we know not to fear what must need to come next for we trust the judgment of those we can't see to maintain the balance twixt you him and me.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

faces of women

The first bills we printed in May, 1810, included the faces of women and men. There was brave Queen Pylta defending a moat upon the 100 talent banking note, then there was our maiden, fair Nuuzstathena, upon what was then the 10 talent drachma. We also have honored dames foreign and not who labored to improve all of mankind's lot, like Keller Luxembourg Frank Yiessht and Curie on much of our land's official currency. We urge now the E.U., the Ynki, the Rus, to celebrate people who have shaped for us the world as we know it the world that is ours for sharing their thoughts hopes dreams and working-hours. If not for the imprint of many a lass we'd likely be living without any class and lapping at puddles and holed up in caves and not much confronting the fault of our ways. Now pull out a fifty now cast you a glance and keep you that boner-farm tucked in your pants for all of those ladies that live on your cash will save and avenge you and that in a flash. So raise you a toast to the girl at your side, for she is the source of most all of our pride, for hers is a mighty and sharply-tuned brain that's saved us from ruin again and again.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥]

women at home

There was not a murmur of fear in their ranks as they reached the top of the enemies' banks. Dug into a river in their country's west were some of the bravest and some of the best that they had encountered in all of their days which prompted them to craft some devious ways. They'd trapped in clay jars many manner of bees that they'd duly harvested from nearby trees that they then sent flying from catapults crude which their foes found shitty unwanted and rude. With hardly a quiver and much hardy sand they then undertook the next step of their plan and blasted their foe without remorse or heed but with much deliberate and measured speed. They managed to rid him then off selfsame banks for which they received heaps of praise and much thanks from women at home and from allies afar who now recognize them for all that they are.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

from many trees

There was of a sudden a light in the sky that with a great speed through the heavens did fly that buzzed many rooftops and finally found an end to its travels in our marshy ground. The object was metal and dried up the turf and let up much steam from its not-too-deep berth for its had been a long wide trajectory and it had clipped many tops from many trees. As soon as it had cooled enough to be took it was swiftly loaded up onto a truck and hauled to a room at the Circle of Knowledge where it was then probed weighed examined and polished. Its secrets discovered its origins too it was forthwith set up within its own booth where children from near and experts from afar could come to marvel at this bright falling star. Since it had descended during the twilight it gained of the nickname Twixt Even and Night which was soon adopted Grigovia-wide to lift up our spirits and buoy our pride.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

bountiful foodstuff supplies

He'd stood on his doorstep and prayed there for rain and yet all his pleadings were offered in vain for to the wrong goddesses he'd made his plea – all hail the Steppe Mother, all praise be to she who causes her moistures to fall from the skies who grows our rich bountiful foodstuff supplies. Her gaze covers all the farms south of the Pass, from ones that grow grains to those that just make grass for feeding the livestock from which comes all meat, without which most mealtimes would not be complete. The Steppe Mother calls upon Grigovians to alter tradition and change up their plans and consume such items the Earth herself makes and stop eating chicken pig or bovine steaks. Great mountains of barley wheat corn oat and rice would become available and would suffice to feed all the people we have in this land if diets were switched to vegetarian. So stop putting animals into your stews and sample with recipies based on this new exciting and cutting-edge curriculum that sees all things living together, as one.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

bodies and hair

Sunk down in the marshes acidic and deep were found a few persons who appeared asleep. The chemical stew there had preserved their hides in such a fine fashion they appeared alive – with clothes on their bodies and hair on their heads to every appearance they did not seem dead. The fibers and leather that clung to their skin were carefully removed before did begin a thorough analysis of all their tattoos as well as their last meals, tooth-wearing, and shoes. Much insight was gained into their ancient rites and work it proceeded both daytime and night and some tools and weapons were found buried there that were still so sharp that they could split a hair. The remains and sundry are now on display in Grig's large Museum Of Then And Today that sits on the banks of the frothy Yalung whose doors they stand open to old and to young. Stop by for a visit, see with your own eyes, come gasp with delightful and pleasant surprise at all of the riches dug up from below that make up this solemn yet insightful show.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

his final days

A man of unshakable deep solid faith he refused to brush his teeth eat well or bathe. For more than a few years he lived in this way and cared not for lowly mundane day-to-day or what to his mind were mere petty concerns until of a sudden his insides did burn. It was an large ulcer that ate at his guts that made him act crazy mad psycho and nuts that made him to rethink his blind dedication to the thought that he could not be touched by such foul consternation. He then changed his diet and started to wash but could only sit back and suffer and watch as his past decisions did haunt and mistreat his every motion on endless repeat. He cursed then the god that he had once but praised and lived out in agony his final days and went to his rest still with spite in his soul – he who had let arrogance wreak its harsh toll.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

towering and wooden

There is a small forest on the edge of Grig that is populated by trees tall and big. The arbor has stood since time once began, since our founding persons did set forth this land and shelter by solemn official decree that no single saw-blade these trees would dare see. Their tops reach to heaven, their roots do run deep and many cool wind-gusts their leafy crowns sweep, there are many pathways that make curvy walks between their long towering and wooden stalks. They would make fine masts but we're far from the ocean and still rather enjoy the quick sweeping motion that they make when lapped at by squalls from the north that rush down and move all their limbs back and forth. We're glad they weren't made into houses or spears, that they have stayed standing these many long years, and hope that our children and theirs then in kind will share of the hopes that we hold in our mind to keep for the future – for prosperity – these unique majestic ancient mega-trees.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

tiniest and grandest

She is the fair Maiden Of What's Left Unsaid and there is no other can act in her stead. She governs and watches over honest minds and bears silent witness to all of our crimes and shelters the tiniest and grandest Truths that we dare not set in stone or prove with proofs. Therefore we must guard her weak small tender form and keep deep inside us the thought of her warm and not rush to speak about that which we think lest we cause an uproar or turmoil or stink. There are you see some things which much stay Unsaid which we dare not to escape the hole in the head that talks without ceasing and spills without pause pears of endless wisdom through hard-marbled jaws. So sew up the mandibles, pray do not speak, and zip up that suck-hole this day and this week, and keep it all closed up and sealed from within – for then a great prize you shall most surely win. The Maiden is gracious, respects sacrifice, and claims that mere silence alone will suffice to secure her blessing and countenance fair – not boasting or riches or suave debonair.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

all too little

Just three rows and bushels of corn were laid in before the white snowflakes to fall did begin. The young men had little to keep them afloat, a handful of acres, a small flock of goat, a stand of tall willows from which they could weave a basket or two in the darkening eve. What kept them all going however was that they had once been promised by a talking cat to be the recipients of vast treasure so much that they'd dare not its outlines to measure. They knew all too little, and much less than most, and trusted a cat (which not many can boast), and kept right on working through darkness and rain in hopes that their fortunes would turn round again.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥