nameless protector goddess

Her face was the last flames of sundown, her voice the grating screech of a loose and rusty hinge. She’d hide in the cracks of yesterday’s memories, where the darker fears live, but she herself knew not fear or thirst, hunger or want. She was the keeper of secret passions, the protector of lost and feeble souls. She had no name. As with a shadow, she was there yet not really there, present yet absent, unforgettable yet impossible to overlook. Hers are the hopes never spoken, the forgotten feelings rotting away behind fast-food-fat walls. And though most people meet her frequently, she sloughs from their minds with the breaking of the next day’s sun. Heed her call, and rejoice.

© JPR / whorphan / americanifesto / 場黑麥

dispatch 4 - NYC

In the foyer of the Grigovian Traveller’s Mission, some new arrivals were watching highlights of debate between D. Trump and H. Clinton. Earlier that morning, Erya had read on the news website Russia Today that there were at least four other legitimate presidential contenders but that the two most influential parties had locked all others out of nationally syndicated debates in order to maintain their hold on power. She didn’t trust Russia Today, but counted on it to at least show a different point of view on world affairs. Other sites she frequently perused were Democracy Now!, Al Jazeera, National Public Radio, and the Guardian. Slowly, it was dawning on her how the American people could appear to be so daft, so disconnected from the corruption and abuse occurring at the highest levels of their government - the people they trusted to spoon-feed them the news weren't talking about such things. Part of the preparation for her post of de-facto Grigovian ambassador to the United Nations, Ms. Rovend had studied the politics, history, and economy of the United States. Not that such studies were mandatory for an ambassador, but she had figured that someone from a relatively weak country such as Grigovia should know as much as possible about the relatively strong country that seemed to be bullying states and peoples around the world. No one had elected or appointed her to the post of ambassador - she had been approached by her country’s Foreign Office after having given a speech denouncing imperialism and the unequal distribution of wealth (especially in industrialized nations).

Pulling her coat tightly around herself, she wandered out of the Mission, turned left on Ninth Avenue, and walked slowly south. Some men whistled at her from a construction site, but she ignored them. She had learned long ago to not give men power of her by reacting to their sexist aggressions. Having trained in three forms of martial arts, her body was a lethal weapon. Not knowing exactly what she was looking for, she wandered aimlessly from one side of southern Manhattan island to the other, just another brown-haired girl in a denim jacket out for an afternoon stroll.

© JPR / whorphan / americanifesto / 場黑麥

dispatch 3 - NYC

She went to a public house, drank there a beer. Denied entry into a trendy looking club, she decided instead to wander the streets in search of friendly faces. Few were they and far between for many wore a sullen mien as they did drag themselves back home from jobs in banks - savings and loan. That second night, she discovered Washington Square Park, where she felt at least a bit at home. In that place as is most of Grigovia, people from all walks of life were taking the evening air, stopping to look at one another or to talk, walking dogs, playing chess, dancing, singing, being free. Erya Rovend check-mated a gentleman in ten turns then joined a group of university students heading toward Mamoun’s, a falafel shop. She discussed with them how strange it was that few Americans seemed to be aware that their country was at war (i.e. bombing targets with impunity) in five separate nations around the globe. “No one talks about such things, at least not on T.V.,” a young political scientist told her.

Erya bid the group farewell and started walking south, toward a place her folding map listed as Battery Park. On the way she paused at Wall Street, but kept walking when two heavily armed police officers started staring at her and whispering to each other. Such was her culture shock that she just then started to notice the profusion of closed circuit television (CCTV) cameras screwed into the sides of most buildings, unblinking eyes staring out on nearly empty streets. When she arrived, Battery Park was deserted but for a dozen or so homeless persons bedding down for the night. Leaning forward onto a length of cast-iron railing, Erya stared at the empty pedestal where the statue ‘Liberty Enlightening the World’ had stood until the Glorious Republic of Grigovia had bought it - to save it from the scrap-heap. Lost in thought, she was startled when a radio chirped loudly, just behind her. She turned to find a pair of heavily-armed police officers standing on a patch of darkness, a pile of old blankets at their feet. One of the officers, a male, kicked at the pile until the person sleeping therein woke up.
“No sleeping in the park, you. Get moving,” the officer said.
Clad in too few clothes for the fall weather, the painfully skinny man gathered up his rotting blankets, paused to pull up his belt-less pants, and started shuffling toward the brightly lit sidewalk at the edge of the park.
The two officers turned toward Erya. Shocked by the cruel way the officers had treated the homeless man, they caught staring at them, slack-jawed and wide-eyed.
“You too - be on your way,” the female officer told her.
‘No wonder the U.S. sold us its statue of liberty,’ she thought to herself as she exited the park. ‘There are not enough freedoms left here, it seems, to in good conscious justify keep it up.’

© JPR / whorphan / americanifesto / 場黑麥

Grigovian peace bonds

The Grigovian Ministry of Peace, Harmony, and Cooperation (MOPHAC) is proud to announce the return of Peace Bonds! Starting in March of [Gregorian 2017, Lunisolar 4714, Hebrew 5777], Peace Bonds will be available for purchase at any of MOPHAC’s two-score national chapters. Proceeds from the sale of Peace Bonds will be used to fund vocational training and other forms of education for the thousands of Syrian refugees resettled within Grigovia and our neighboring states, primarily Iran and Afghanistan. Unlike War Bonds, which are used by some Western countries to fund aggressive, illegal, and immoral incursions into the territories of sovereign foreign nations, Peace Bonds will be used to help lift displaced and otherwise impoverished persons - Grigovians and new arrivals alike - out of poverty by giving them the tools they need to live productive and healthy lives. Courses such as Community Gardening and Health Through Repetitive Application as well as Hacking Skills for Tomorrow’s Computing are on offer at all campuses of the Grigovian National Education System, free of charge. For more information about Peace Bonds or to volunteer to host a family fleeing war in Syria, please contact your local parliamentary representative, zheriph’s office, or Grigovian People’s Army agent.

© JPR / whorphan / americanifesto / 場黑麥

.⏄\♁␣ӫΘӫ␣♁/⏄.

the ones in the middle do drink of their fill; the rest on the outside must settle with swill

dispatch 2 - NYC

On her second day in New York, she got a ticket for drinking in public. She’d been on foot, exploring the southern tip of Manhattan island. She’d bought a can of beer from a corner shop and sat in the park to drink it. In Grigovia, she thought to herself, adults are allowed to make adult decisions. In front of her stood a pair of police-officers. Tall female, shorter male.
“Why am I being punished?” she asked them, her olive complexion turning slightly darker.
The cops shared a knowing glance, shook their heads slowly, and smiled. The taller officer showed her partner the ticket. He nodded, smiling, his hands resting on his thickly-studded weapons belt.
“The public consumption of alcohol is forbidden in New York City.”
Erya Rovend looked over at the sidewalk seating area of a nearby cafe. At a few of the tables, people were drinking what, to her, clearly appeared to be alcohol. Bottles of wine. Glasses of beer.
“Next time, maybe put it in a plastic cup,” said the woman as she tore a paper slip from her notepad and handed it to Erya. She took out her leather passport holder and slipped the ticket into it.
“You stay out of trouble now,” the man-cop said.
He and his partner sauntered away into the park.

Walking over a bridge later that same afternoon, the former Grigovian ambassador to the United Nations noticed a couple of young men scaling a chainlink fence nearby, dropping down onto the train tracks below, and rushing quickly out of sight. The way the men were dressed - their hooded sweatshirts and paint-stained backpacks - reminded her of friends back in Grig who did graffiti. She scaled the same fence as they had, dropped down also, and walked confidently into the gloom ahead. Soon enough, she could hear the familiar rattling of cans, the soft whooshing of paint being propelled out of steel cylinders. Pausing to look around at the walls of the tunnel, she found them to be covered in a riot of designs and shapes, words and figures blasted onto the surrounding concrete by countless former vandals.
“Now this is good stuff,” she said aloud, whistling quietly, in appreciation.
“You hear something?” one of the nearby artists hissed.
“No need to worry, friends,” Erya started to say as she turned to face their general direction, stepping accidentally onto a piece of broken wood that spun away to break a discarded liquor bottle.
There followed a flurry of zipping and cursing. The sound of people running. Then, silence.
Climbing over the train that had separated them, Era Rovend discovered that the men had vanished, their good graffiti work unfinished. An unfinished piece glistened in the faint light coming from the tunnel’s mouth. To her it looked like a group of citizens standing their ground against a phalanx of riot police. Under it was written in black and glaring letters the following statement:
Man The Barricades; Black Lives Matter.

© JPR / whorphan / americanifesto / 場黑麥

dispatch 1 - NYC

She stepped off the airplane in New York and was immediately overwhelmed. It was years since she’d last been there, and certain things were a shock to her: the size of buildings, the width of highway lanes, the number of fat people around. In the distance she thought she could see the skyline of Manhattan, something she mostly ignored during her previous visits. She kept walking toward the adjacent terminal, and lost sight of that famous sawtooth silhouette, her mind turning to the task at hand - security check, passport check, customs check. All routine for a frequent traveler such as the former de facto Grigovian ambassador to the United Nations. A light traveler, she had packed one week’s worth of clothing into her carry-on bag. She’d toured both war-torn regions and peaceful metropolises, forged rivers and ducked gunfire. In her former post, she had addressed well-dressed heads of state and rag-bound orphans alike, sometimes both in the same day. There is little left, she thought, that will shock me. I’m ready.
“What’s the purpose of your visit?” the dark-skinned immigration agent said.
“Pleasure,” she replied. The man leaned forward to look at the computer screen in front of him.
“Is this your first time in the U.S.?” he asked, peering up at her.
“It is my first time here as a civilian.”
After a few more moments, and some thoughtful glances, the agent punched keys on his keyboard, slid a slim piece of paper between the folds of her cornflower-blue Grigovian passport, and handed it back to her.
“Welcome to America.”
Erya Rovend smiled in thanks, picked up her passport, shouldered her backpack, and started following signs to Ground Transportation. Within an hour, she was in midtown Manhattan, where she bought two cheap gravity knives and a wool scarf from a sidewalk vendor. Seeing something familiar in the man’s worn face, she greeted him formally in Pashto, a language common to Central Asia. His smile was so wide she was afraid it would split his head in two, the creases and cracks all running together at the corners of the eyes. Taking her hands in his, he blessed her, wishing her success on her path, wherever it would take her.
Swept along by a pressing mass of pedestrians moving by, she soon lost sight of the Afghan gentleman, losing also her patience for the touristik bustle of Times Square. She walked west, toward the setting sun. At a corner bakery she bought two sticky pastries, one for her and one for a homeless woman crouching in a nearby alleyway. Upon reaching the Hudson River she turned south, making for the Grigovian Travellers’ Mission on 8th Avenue and 14th Street.
Erya Rovend - civic leader, social philosopher, martial artist - had arrived in America. And she was going to find out what, as the Ynki tend to say, made it tick.

© JPR / whorphan / americanifesto / 場黑麥

⌓·ī☉ӝ⎑ӝ☉ī·⌓

this breath is so deep it just well might drown me; if so though that is what the godhead decrees

Liberty receives facelift

Nearly three (3) full years after purchasing her from a bankrupt and failing Ynki government, ‘Liberty Enlightening the World’ will receive an extensive facelift. The massive copper-clad iron statue has been thoroughly inspected by a group of restoration experts, who estimate their efforts to repair weather and transportation damage will take roughly two (2) years. Standing proudly on Mad Spit, an island situated in the Yalung river near downtown Grig, ‘Liberty’ is the pride and joy of many Grigovians. The repairs will be be paid for and managed by a crowdfunded and not-for-profit group of local craftspersons. As per a recent press-release, the group plans to donate all excess funds to locate orphanages.

© JPR / whorphan / americanifesto / 場黑麥

Grigovia accepts refugees

An additional 500 refugees fleeing the Syrian conflict arrived today in Grig, capital of the Glorious Republic of Grigovia. Housed temporarily in tunnels usually set aside as emergency winter quarters, the recent arrivals will soon be put up permanently in the homes of average citizens, in cities dotting this Central Asian nation. “Many of the people arriving now are highly skilled and well educated,” said Theiyundt Rhakshamb, deputy Director of Refugee Affairs for the country’s Interior Ministry. “We look forward to helping these good people become settled here, locate schools for their children, and, in a month or two, find some form of work.” This most recent batch of refugees arrived with the help of neighboring Iran, having been moved by bus and rail from collection points on the latter’s western border. In the year 2014 (Gregorian), the two countries entered into a partnership with the stated goal of “assisting any and all persons affected by the continuing campaigns of violent, foreign intervention being visited upon the Syrian people,” according to a joint press release. The newly arriving Syrians are invited to attend a welcoming dinner hosted by members of Grigovia’s parliament later this week, at the National Convention Center.

© JPR / whorphan / americanifesto / 場黑麥

president receives prize

Citing his proven track record of depraved and violent acts designed to force the peaceful and independent peoples of the world to follow his country’s every whim and fancy, the Noble Committee today bestowed its coveted ‘War Prize’ upon the sitting American president. Formerly, Mr. President had received the Committee’s ‘Peace Prize,’ which it apparently gives out to people it merely likes, not to those who are actively trying to make the world a more peaceful place. “The current American president has done an amazing job in reducing Syria to rubble using an illegal bombing campaign,” said Denmark’s prince Gusdav Kleimenhamerstin IV, head of the Noble Committee. “His valiant efforts to subjugate the leadership of Syria under the American bootheel alone prove he deserves this medal; his determined campaign to install a Rothschild-run central bank in said country is, as Americans say, just ‘the icing on top of the cake’ - good, of course, for the half million of us who are already incredibly rich but very very bad for the roughly seven billion other sad cunts alive today.” Due to an apparent scheduling conflict related to his efforts to help a buddy get into office too, the current Ynki president regrets to announce he will be accepting his ‘War Prize’ via an appointed peon.

© JPR / whorphan / americanifesto / 場黑麥

one free pony

Early this morning, at a performing arts center in rural northwestern New Mexico, all four major candidates vying for president of the United States of America decided to cancel their runs. Citing the absurdity of even thinking about trying to govern a people concerned primarily with the fulfilment of immediate bodily needs and pleasures, the breadth and scope of systemic corruption in politics and industry, as well as the horrors inflicted by the nation’s various police departments upon innocent persons of color, the campaigns of Don Trump, Doctor Jill Stein, Governor Gary Johnson, and Secretary Hillary Clinton threw in the towel - simultaneously and independently of one another. The remaining candidate appears to be Vermin Supreme, who wears a boot for a hat and promises each American one (1) free pony. “Maybe that’s what this country needs, a complete outside whose entire platform is built on apparent and hilarious insanity,” said Rheinhold F. Hannikken, former staff member of one of the campaigns. Then, he dug a cigarette out of his pack to give to Mrs. Clinton, who nodded in thanks before returning to the cluster of other candidates sitting on a some small boulders piled up against a storage shed. After each of the former candidates had taken a pull off of the smoke, he or she got up, said a brief farewell, and shuffled aimlessly off in the general direction of the setting sun.

© JPR / whorphan / americanifesto / 場黑麥

good at mouth

This one will be short and this one will be brief - three cheers for our goddess Denta of the Teeth! Her tools are tongue scraper and toothbrush and floss; of wisdom’s rear molars she’s long been the boss; she rewards each person who’s good at mouth-cleaning by helping him live a long life filled with meaning. Now lift up those bristles that mouthwash raise high in hopes that our tooth-loving goddess will spy these good daily efforts with which we do hope to reach the smooth side of life’s slippery slope.

© JPR / whorphan / americanifesto / 場黑麥

laughter just one

She’d bring hope in segments - one scrap at a time - then sit back to watch her good work there unwind. At first it was laughter just one or two bits that soon led to everyone balled up in fits. Second she sent fuzzies to warm and delight that did seem to linger most all through the night. Third it was deep restfulness during which she’d tend to each and every hurt thirst want and need. Her labors completed she would hurry back to perch in her high-mountain chilling-time shack and wait there for the crack of next morning’s dawn when back down amongst us she’ll hurry and come.

© JPR / whorphan / americanifesto / 場黑麥

now forthwith today

Dear Ynki: stop funding extreme little factions that perpetrate violent and deadly actions. We’re sick of you meddling in foreign affairs whilst maintaining your false and presumptive airs; your business is between your own borders only not out here supporting wars as some call holy. Roll back your war machine and fire the brass and please do so quickly to prove you’ve got class; the world it is reeling from criminal dealings used by you to force upon others your feelings of inadequacy and helplessness too - just look at all of the cruel things that you do. You claim to want but to help and to aid but if that is true sip more of your Kool-Aide for nearly all actions you’ve done in the past have had dire outcomes (think shell- and bomb-blast). Your elections will be another sick farce of bullshit comparisons ‘twixt bitch and arse - please deal with your own probs before lecturing us on how we must alter this or that thing. This missive won’t impact upon Ynki’s mind; for too long he’s been by war-making defined; for too long his angry and aggressive bent has seen untold gallons of good lifeblood spent. Grigovians though have seen enough of killing and enough of plutocrats’ smoke-filled-room dealings; we demand an end to these bunk Ynki ways not soon or next year but now forthwith today.

© JPR / whorphan / americanifesto / 場黑麥