by Grimoire

I moved to Canada six or seven months ago for the mountains and the ocean. It’s a nice place, free of the racial and social tensions prevalent below the 49th parallel. The people are good-natured in their way. Yet I cannot stomach them and much prefer the company of Americans.

The other day I bought a locally made bicycle - a real work of Canadian craftsmanship, the construction and materials are superb. As good or better really than anything in this class in Europe or the States. Super light and fast, yet still tough. A semi street/trail bike, no shocks or extras ... hyper-lightweight as I wanted it.

I saw on a map a large wetlands bird sanctuary about 35 km away. So I threw a collapsible fishing pole and a few things in the panniers and ripped the 35 km in about an hour or so. The majority of the trip was off road on trails, and I passed 4 or 5 beautiful waterfalls. The largest waterfall was multi-level, each step with beautiful pools filled with shopping-carts and stolen bicycles. It was inhabited by homeless hippies smoking dope and crackheads throwing around garbage, all white. At another waterfall I saw otters fishing for salmon fry, and a large Barred Owl sat on the ground in the middle of the trail, I stopped for it and it seemed to smile . You have to be very careful with Owls, they have no fear whatsoever and will attack a human if they consider them fools.

When I got to the sanctuary a sign said “no pets, riding bicycles, etc, etc”. So I got off and walked my bike. The wetlands sanctuary was an Eden, I have seen little like it. Birds of every description; Bald Eagles, Ospreys, Hawks, Owls, Herons, Cardinals, Redwing Blackbirds, Bluejays, Northern Flickers, Woodpeckers, Geese, ducks of all types, hundreds of varieties of songbird. Beavers swam by and slapped their tails as you walked along. Turtles sat on logs, Deer everywhere. Along one 2 hectare line a stand of mature English Oaks had died many years before from flooding. The bark had completely fallen off, and the trees still stood intact, white and smooth as ivory sculpture, an incredible vision.

As I was walking along a path overhung with flowering Hawthorne, bullrushes to one side by the water, I noticed a short squat woman walking intently towards me. I didn’t want to talk with any idiots, most definitely not women. I find older Canadian women are sows. You come into contact with them often, as they feel no qualms about walking up to the stranger and interrogating them for information which they can share within their cauldron-stirring circles. One cannot help noticing this is a feminist-controlled country and the older woman, who are unpleasant to look at, are worse to be around. They seem to not understand that they are not the objects of desire they legislate to be seen as.

I put thoughts of repulsive women out of my mind and walked on looking up in the trees ... but every so often noticing she was heading towards me. I remained unequivocal till she was right in front and I could ignore her no longer. She was a short squat Asian woman, dressed in a khaki uniform, like a park ranger, in her mind at any rate, with a suspicious pair of binoculars and a khaki cap.

“I want to thank you for not riding your bicycle. That’s very good. That shows you respect Natures Trust ... and you respect the Natures Trust by not riding your bicycle ... that is very good ... ching chong, chingedy chong ...” she said to me, apropos of nothing.

I looked at the khaki apparition and didn’t know quite what to say. So I said ‘Your welcome’ and began to step around her to continue. Her squant eyes darkened when she thought she heard a accent.

“Awwww, you tourist ...” And she stepped right in front of me, the odour was unpleasant, a blend of body odour and stale cooking oil. She was going to force a conversation like all the other repulsive women in this part of the world, and for a brief moment I wondered if the Natures Trust would find disrespectful the body of an Asian bitch floating amongst the marsh grass and ducks.

“Would you like to donate? This would be good ... good, you ... donate, yes?” I didn’t look but I imagine a tin cup painted with ducks was brought out.

“If you will excuse me.” I replied and attempted to continue in a direction tangential to her presence.



She looked at me with disappointment, yet there was something more to her tone ... more of a ‘disappoint not my authority’ texture. Suddenly, she stepped directly in front of me, blocking my path. I was shocked at this violation of passage. My mind raced to identify what was going on here. Was she a Natures Trust whore ? I looked at her as much as I could bear ... ugly, yes, hideous, check ... no ... something else ... I identified it then, and knew what I was looking at: a Chinese Cultural Revolutionary Red Guard reject. She was Chinese, an immigrant, and of the right age to have been indoctrinated as a youth during the cultural revolution. Chinese of this age were all indoctrinates of the Cultural Revolution. Probably had her own father and mother shot. Now here she was in a khaki uniform purchased from a strip mall, rounding up counter-revolutionaries for re-education and rehabilitation. But there was something else to her lamprey-like vacuuming up to me ... something Jiang Ching and ‘gang of 7’.

Ah ... now I saw the reason for the imposition. I was a tall white European male enemy of the short Peoples Maoist-Woman’s International, or something. Did I not know this was their world? She was collecting fines ...

“ The Natures Trust do not have money….” she chi-lisped like a mad duck.

“I’m not interested in any shakedowns.” I interjected. This didn’t compute with her at all. She was the authority here and grew visibly angry. She expected appropriate behaviour from arrogant Uropeangs. This was not it.

“But you enjoy our ...”

“Fuck off.” I cut in. Her face swelled with purple fluids while snake eyes watered behind smoked plastic lenses .

“But ...”

“FUCK OFF”... loud and proud, with an intention to inform her of who was the authority here, in no uncertain terms probably heard in Fukushima as the people dived again into their radioactive holes. Flocks of geese and ducks took to wing honking, splashing and quacking, and generally beating it ... birds everywhere jumped from their branches so that the wood seemed to take to the air. And she was gone. She de-materialized and seemed to re-materialize about 150 metres down the trail, bugging out as fast as her little clogs could burn up the rubber soles.

This is the type of bird sanctuary negativity I do not need, and counter-revolutionary style rode my bike the rest of the way around the sanctuary. I try to practice a type of mental satori where I keep my mind free of negative thoughts and find my energy shoots up exponentially. On the way back I thought, well, I’m negative now, the day is shot, maybe I could pop in and throw the hippies and the crackheads over the waterfall to cheer up. I could feel a positive state of mind and a smile returning with the thought.

Anyway, to the point.

The moral of the story is ... this is the type of opposition we really face. The power of the state is nothing, you follow the law and you can deal with it, you can influence it ... you can confuse and con it. The media can be jammed. The sea of Negroes can be parted with a monster truck. What have you got left? A bunch of pruned-out lesbian bitches with university degrees printed in the devil’s menstrual blood, power tripping immigrants nostalgic for the past abuses they adored, gabbling Jews all you have to do is throw some change down the grate and their happy for hours, militant gays ... please! These are the facts. The whole idea of the take-over of our countries is illusion. Sure, everyone is acting on the illusion as if their ass depended on it. But the delusion is only because reality has not yet slapped the stupid out. Everyone is mad. What Nationalists have to do is stop being the nuts we are expected to dutifully be, instead be the sane people in the room, who do not act on illusions but speak the truth - the real truth, not fantasy. Not little truth prizes scattered on a trail through the forest for simple children to gather up. We know what is up. We can deal with it. We know they are scared shitless someone will notice the man behind the curtain is a one eyed-midget Jabulon with a Talmud. All we have to do is set the terms to this argument and we are halfway to winning it.

The West is our fucking house. It’s time the party’s over.