EC 536

A Happenstance Witness and The Holy Ghost:

Neither a novel or documentary, but a story that

for the patient reader may, in retrospect, make sense.

By © Ludis Cuckold

The Heretic  (4)

Last night I had a dream that had me pursued as a criminal. When I awoke, the feeling of being guilty lingered, and I wondered—why such a dream?

Was it because I was defending St. Stalin?

It could be. St. Stalin had liquidated thousands of orthodox clergy and many of their followers would not forgive him for that. Surely the Orthodox Church of today will not sanctify him.* Yet I am looking to excuse Stalin and am calling him a saint. Why should the victors of the most recent battle (the U.S. and European—EU—capitalist system vs the Soviet Union) not have the police chase me and have me flogged if not burnt at the stake?

                                                                                      

*Nevertheless, in the aftermath of Hitler’s attack on Russia in 1941, and in return for Stalin easing pressures against the Orthodox Church, the authorities of the Church nearly did make him a saint. “It was he ‘whom Divine Providence chose and placed to lead our Fatherland on the path of prosperity and glory.’⁶² Iakunin suggests that Alexii expected that Stalin was about to declare the country a pan-Slav Orthodox Empire.⁶³ It may not be too fanciful to speculate that Stalin’s inclination toward the Orthodox Church was linked with his own training as an Orthodox seminarian.” (Peter J.S. Dunkan, “Russian Messianism”. Routledge, 2000, p59). Even more interestingly, Isaac Newton, the noted scientist who discovered the laws of gravity was also an authority on history and religion, believed that the Eschaton may not arrive until the beginning of the 20^th century, some say the 21^st (2060 to be precise). As the military activities of the U.S. have set the
Doomsday Clock to three minutes before midnight, one may suggest “…you ahaven’t seen anything yet.” Obama or Trump may be worse than either Hitler or Stalin.

It is not that I perceive things differently from other human beings. Nevertheless, my perception of politics may be influenced by political inflections that have bypassed others. As per a recent conversation I had with an elderly Balt from Latvija:

“He: ‘So you think President Ulmanis was a traitor?’

“Me: ’Not exactly. A gutless wonder, he failed his thumos. He did great damage to our people by meeting the Soviet occupation as phlegmatically as he did. Indeed, it seemed that when he told the Latvian Commons: “I will stay in my place, you stay in yours”, he was indifferent to Soviet occupation.’

“He: ‘What should he have done?’

“Me: ‘He should have put a pistol to his head and pulled the trigger.’

“He: ‘How would that have made a difference?’

“Me: ‘You and me and all our countrymen and women would be remembering that act to this day. It would have inspired us to this day and given us the courage to keep the totalitarian European Union at bay.  Instead, our remembrance of our sovereign nation is tainted by humiliation. Today our village squares are made unsightly by groups of young and old drunk men. Our government offices are overburdened by corrupt and smirking careerists.’

“He: ‘Unfortunately, that is how it is.’

“Me: ‘And how are you different?’

“He: ‘You have no right to get personal.’

“Me: ‘My apologies. I am being rhetorical. What I really mean to say, rather, ask—don’t you feel as helpless as those drunk men? You and me, most people of our times, we are living proof of who Marx called the alienated ones, if you will, the cuckolded ones.

“He: ‘It is better to say something than nothing.’

“Me: ‘We do not have the nerve to give our life for any cause.’

“He: ‘The Muslim terrorists believe that they do. They even kill innocent people.’

“Me: ‘God cares more over the fate of an atom than he cares about individuals in a corrupt system, especially if the system is the creation of His Creation. The artisan has the right to destroy his/her creation.’

“He: ‘You are being cruel.’

“Me: ‘Maybe yes, maybe no. I believe in God the Artisan. He is not known as One who answers the prayers of the gutless.’

“He: ‘Then God is cruel.’

“Me: ‘God’s ways are his own. I may pray, but I have no way of knowing whether the prayer will be answered or not.’”

“He: ‘Are you a Muslim terrorists?’

“Me: ‘No, only a transmigrating Christian heretic, a spirit the globalist-Catholics did not kill.’”

That was the long and short of our communication.

It brings me to the notion that perhaps my father was a pornographer—along with an army of them—all perverters of reality. The opinion of a Cheka officer that my father had been General Kolchak’s procurer of whores may have been nothing more than a mean subjective opinion. But, no doubt, father had been a White Army officer and served under Kolchak. He never said a word about his experiences as a ‘White’.

“He: ‘May your father’s ghost curse you. He did settle down—eventually.’

“Me: ‘So far God has protected me. But father never paid attention to his children, not in a personal way. To this day I do not know what to make of it. Sometimes I think that on his wedding night, he must fucked my mother in her arse. She, too, never gave much attention to her children, but left them to the nannies, which she—as a result of being married to my father—could afford. What she did with her free time, I have no idea. She pretended to be a saint, and did ‘nothing’. Perhaps she never got over being banged in the arse—whether figuratively or in the real. But if in the real, it makes sense that she would neglect her children, because she may have thought of them as coming into the world as shit after an enema. We were precious to her, as our shit tends to be to us, while at the same time when it’s out, we flush it down fast.’

”He: ‘You must hate yourself. That is an awful thing to say.’

“Me: ‘It does not make me happy to say it. But my first memory of my father is when on my fifth birthday he presented me with a toy rifle. I began to cry, and he pretended to demonstrate the harmlessness of the toy by firing the caps (plick, plick) into the air.’

 “He: ‘You may be judging your father too harshly.’

“Me: ‘I hope you are right. But I am not soliciting for political correctness as former U.S. President Bush does for his father. Neither am I creating resentment out of thin air. Is it not said: “They will be divided, father against son and son against father…?” The aftermath of World War Two caused one to endured dire poverty and neglect for many years. This became a stamp for some kind of divine punishment...’”

Why did I cry over the present of a toy rifle? At the age of five, I could hardly have known much about the real uses of weapons. Still, I had been given, at other times, toy soldiers as presents. I must have known what a rifle was meant to do.

Or perhaps my anxiety was a premonition that by the time I would be eight, my father would be shot and his body would rot in the sands of some Volga delta sand dune.