Lie Smith USA

updated Tuesday, Thursday, Sunday | also posted to

of being alive

At each Yiptlong entrance is a special gate built with local rockfall, mostly shale or slate. They are rarely swung shut, they’re seldom locked tight, even through the longest and darkest of nights. They don’t serve the purpose of keeping man out instead it’s their duty to remind about the transepts and doorways we transit each day while making our mortal, carefree human way. So next time when passing a gate pause a bit, put down what you’re doing and have a short sit, take one or two moments to empty your mind, allow all your passions to slowly unwind. Each time will be different, each time something new, with practice a calmness will come over you, that you can take with you the rest of your way, please give it a try without further delay.

© americanifesto /場黑麥

a grand parade

Next month we shall honor our self-liberation with grand parades and nation-wide celebrations. Back in October (1944) were Nazis and Soviets poised at our door, both waiting for the proper moment to strike our miles of trenches and defensive dikes. They had not intruded far into our ken before of a sudden two groups of women – old ladies and mothers with knives in their teeth – had sprung from some fighting-holes deep in the heath. They’d stalled the advance of our two deadly foes, had dampened his ardor and bloodied his nose, had halted a moment the oncoming Blitz with screams in their bosoms and milk in their tits. Now cautious and wary the foe did advance after having cleaned up his soiled underpants, with eyes stapled open and fear in his veins did he get to moving his armored war-trains. He entered a country stripped from peak to fell; its bridges torn down and poison in its wells; its bounty eroded; its people vanished; its fine reputation besmirched and tarnished. Before he could settle and plan strategy emerged from the tunnels (ordered, silently) a vast local army armed just with its hands to drive the base enemies out of its lands. To maximize its psychological fright it struck in the darkest deep hour of night and tore out the hearts of its enemies two with tactics both ancient and brand-spanking new. Now armed with his shiny, slick war-making tools the bold rebel army gave chase to the fools who had dared to enter into its domain and gave him good reason to not come again. We are very grateful for the sacrifice of all those brave warriors who joined in the fights, who made sure that we all – that you, him, and me – could stand here rejoicing, happy, proud, and free.

© americanifesto /場黑麥

its raw volunteers

The 9th Mountain Rangers are calling to arms all young men and women from cities and farms, from hamlets, skyscrapers, suburbs near and far, there’s no need to prepare just come as you are. The 9th has been shaping its raw volunteers into hardened soldiers for 200 years, first formed during conflict in 1813 ours is still a tight-knit and family-like team. We instruct in aspects of modern war-making, in subterfuge and guerrilla undertakings, in sabotage, hacking, and counter-surveillance, in cleanliness, honor, and marching in phalanx. Our uniforms blend into rock-face and soil; our pride is deep-rooted in blood, sweat, and toil; we ask that you lend us your muscles and ears; your sweethearts will greet you with music and cheers. Come visit our offices in Grig’s downtown, come join this here unit, increase its renown, protect our dear borders from enemies base and help us to defend our glorious race.

© americanifesto /場黑麥

in her bones

Afloat in the swollen, wide Yalung River, in her heart much fear, in her bones a shiver, she begged to the Goddess, the most graceful one, to save her from certain death and destruction. The waves and swift currents whipped up by the storm, did toss and abuse her near-limp human form, they threatened to drag her down into the deeps, into a vast, endless, encompassing sleep. Then just as her hope and last fragments of power had fled and the bells were tolling her last hour there was a deep calm in the skies suddenly whereupon she once again uttered her plea. ‘Please help me, dear Goddess, I know that you’re near, my heart is still clamped in unshakable fear, I know you are merciful, graceful, and true, please tell me what in this here peril to do.’ The answer came not in words, symbols, or talk, the maiden though found she could suddenly walk, with tentative steps she then fled from the flood with tears in her eyes and a heat in her blood. Just moments thereafter she built a small shrine right there on the banks to give thanks for divine help and intervention from a nameless force that saved her from a downward spiraling course.

© americanifesto /場黑麥

on Grigovian energy

Vast wind farms abound on the Great Barren Plain where few people live and thus fewer complain. They’re built to high standards of technology, can capture such gusts as would barely move trees. Deep wells also tap into geo-therm heat (through cycles that are on an endless repeat) by pulling hot water from deep underground and using its steam to send turbines around. Solar collectors dot the Great Dune Sea, all gathering photons by day, silently, but these must be washed and always cleaned of dust lest they should develop a light-blocking crust. There’s coal in our mountains, some wide seams of it, but we’re not much into just burning the shit. We’d rather turn algae into diesel fuel or harness sources that are renewable. All things that make power are owned and belong to each native person born in the Yiptlong, or brought to life within our national borders – to all of Grigovia’s fine sons and daughters. We’ve set up a true non-profit corporation to make sure that all electricity won gets doled out and shared without too much corruption lest there should flare up a vast social eruption. GriSol is its shortened, legitimate name, to honor the source whence all life truly came, invest in our future and make our land great, together we can all mankind elevate.

© americanifesto / 場黑麥

warm cloudy flagons

Straight back to the top of majestic Grigung return all the gods from each mission far-flung. They race duly to there after saving towns, after doing acts of daring and renown, after bravely rescuing kids from a fire or climbers who’d got lost among craggy spires. They live in a place that no mortal can see, high above the region where grow no more trees; their houses and balés, their mansions and domes are modest and practical, welcoming homes. They drink only warm, cloudy flagons of mead, their wounds close up quickly and they rarely bleed, from us puny mortals but two things they need: virtuous behavior and a lack of greed. To seal themselves off and keep enemies out they’ve fully encircled their lofty redoubt with a cloak of snake-skin and bright amethyst that’s known to man-children only as Graegist. Oumbast is the trickster, the fool of the bunch, she causes cruel chaos if she should miss lunch, she lives by herself in a barn made of stone where she can chase rodents and curl up alone. The other gods they mostly get along well, for close each other they still choose to dwell, there is in fact little they complain about, except of course Oumbast and base human louts. Please use of this knowledge, please share it freely, and plunge into prayer with a newfound glee, for the gods are watching and listening too to all that we whisper and all that we do.

© americanifesto /場黑麥