No More...
It’s been over a year since the last post on this site...
I know. It’s overdue.
Early on, I’ve vouched to devote my writing only to uplifting messages. My goal was to tell stories of successful entrepreneurs - producers - defying the odds to create and build uniquely valuable businesses. Jewels are in their destinations and beacons are in their communities.
Our work celebrated the maker, the foundational seed of our world. Offering inspiration to fellow entrepreneurs for creating, producing and building a better place. We showcased living life to the fullest and encouraged producers to share their optimism and value with the people around them. To teach others the value of making.
Instead, the last years of 2020 and 2021 went by like a slow-motion trainwreck. And, it is by no means over. While I am writing this post, the ruin of our world is streaming full steam ahead into ever more profound societal oblivion.
Canada is under Marshall Law. People’s livelihoods are confiscated. Banks are looting and locking accounts. Arrests are made in the streets. No travel. Patients were denied appropriate medical care. Contracts are being cancelled. Students are barred from Colleges and Universities. Forced layoffs. Forced Masking. No jab, no job. “Show us your vax-papers.” Apartheid. Segregation.
I simply don’t have much positive to write about anymore...
Yes, you’ve guessed it. We, now, also ran out of positivity.
The optimism drugs are done.
We, too, regressed into self-induced lockdowns, lockouts, closed doors, muzzled mouths, covered faces, nervous glances, muffled voices, and locked doors. Private encounters. No entry.
Did we inherit the hermit’s burdened with the ever-suffocating imposed responsibility of someone else’s fear? Yes, we are now socially distant, finally.
We are the victims of little people with too much power - politicians, passengers, looters, thieves, technocrats and their power and control-hungry bureaucratic minions.
This is a catastrophe. It must end.
“It is time to stop the motor of the world.”
Until it does, in the words of W.H. Auden:
“Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message ‘He is Dead’.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever; I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out everyone,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.”
Our producers are dead. Our makers left.
Where is John Galt?
We strike!
...
