Eric-Anderson Momou was born in the Ivory Coast in Africa. He lives in the Midwest, and is an alumni of UW-Milwaukee with a BA degree in Literature and Cultural Theory. With an Associate’s of Science from Madison College. His short fiction has appeared in Litro Magazine, and the Yahara Journal. Email @ekmomou@gmail.com for inquiries.
The Big Idea came to him after he placed his last box of Jiffy blueberry muffin mix on the tip top shelf of the pastry stand. If you could see his expression, you’d have noticed the spark of revelation in both his eyes. It was new. It was dissociation.
It was one of those lingering thoughts–the kind that caught you by the scruff of the neck, and shook you like a dog. It’d been hanging there, in the musk and brine of subconscious for a while, waiting for the breath of life. Against his better judgement–he ignored it. But he could not do that. It didn’t matter how much he wrung the towel, the work was endless. So, it was time to throw it out. Any fucker could confirm that To be lost in fruitless labor makes you forget where you are in space and time.
He forgot where he was.
Then the Dog came, a brawny guy from Kenya beset with muscle, and a gridiron expression. “You betta hurry,” the Dog said. He stood, at six feet tall, huffing and puffing. Ire was in his eyes, and likeness –or his countenance–was as an ape.
Xavier came back to himself, dressed in his smock, he stood in Bloomies grocery store, aisle six.
“Of course, sir!” Said Xavier Djembe.
It was his eighteenth birthday.
Then, Bossman’s voice blared over the intercom. It blared over the radio too. The announcement interfered with a song, (which bothers him , because he loved to pace his work to music). He remembered the song that played too, because he had just gotten used to the rhythm of it. San Francisco by Scott Mackenzie.
“X, please report to the office. X, report to the office immediately!”
Because he was a stubborn youth, he took his time rearranging the box of Jiffy mix. He even fixed the display, and made sure the boxes were flush: that the “facing” was exactly as the Marketing team had wanted. That the precise angles flayed out in a floral arrangement so as to entice the customer.
Then, like a jackass, he set off to the boss’s office.
In his head this scene played, like a tape recorder:
He was going to quit his job, then and there, like Gene Wilder in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. he’d yell, “Good day sir!” and throw his smock on his desk, without a two-week notice. Also, he’d flick off Bossman, just for the hell of it.
After he’d run home, and tell his mother that he’d already dropped out of college, and was moving out with his pot-smoking, Satanist, sexually ambiguous, trannie friend Vincent. Don’t bother to write Ma, we’re moving to a trailer park in Los Angeles. PO Box No Man’s Land. Yes, the apartment they eyed was a shithole, but that didn’t matter much. Despite his parent’s seething anger, he’d insist that there was nothing they could do about it–that it was his life. X was El Capitan.
He slowed down when he got to the door of his boss’s office. Losing his conviction, he decided he wouldn’t yell, that he’d be assertive. And when he turned the knob, he decided he wouldn’t talk at all.
Bossman sat, watching the Powerball on television. He was on the phone too, haggling over some other gambling bet he’d lost. For a minute he didn’t seem to notice him , so he waited. helike observing things while he waited he took note of the him ss on his desk: the scattered paper clips, the paystubs, the bulletin board laden with Post-It notes. There’s a window in the back of his desk overlooking the parking lot, and in the morning when the sun rises in Wisconsin you feel set free. To cut the imagery shit, it gives you good vibes.
Bloomie’s a twenty-four hour grocery store in Madison—the place is cheap too, but if you work nights (especially with a Sunday differential) you make a killing.
That “killing” had done him in, and the mind numbing repetition of stocking took a toll on his back.
“X!”
“Sir!”
“Just the boy I wanted to see.”
He would drift off into hyperspace with Leonard Nemoy. That’s what he called day-dreaming…
What are your biggest challenges?
Humbling myself. Making sure to acknowledge that I am not always correct in my assertions. Abdicating responsibility. And respecting authority. Letting things go; perhaps it’s an object permanence thing.
I have others of course, but this is not a bad place to start.
What relationships have a positive impact on you?
It’s odd, but I am more of an animal person these days. My friend owns a calico hound, a rescue, and she is amongst the kindest of dogs I have had the pleasure of knowing.
I appreciate the brief interactions of kindness with acquaintances: a laughing person in a deli, a pup chasing a squirrel, a squirrel, feeding the homeless.
Those brief instances in time, are what give me joy these days.
A Letter from the Mayor of Canterville, The Second Ward of Canterbury Dated 15 March
To the Vaenir,
I trust all is well in your Good City.
I do not mean to burden you with the following news. Were it not for the sake of exigency, I’d have attended to this matter myself. But Men have limitations. We are grounded to the earth, unlike our idols: you the Vaenir.
For this reason, I petition for your aid, Dear Vaenir.
Allow me to relate my eye witness account:
Until yesterday I could scarcely believe the talk in the Second Ward. To think a monster of fable could enter our civil township under such barbaric pretenses would have sent me laughing to Alighieri sanitarium. I had not wanted to believe such folly until I heard the multitude of accounts, and saw the lithograph.
The circumstances of the crime were most morose. After the intense questioning of multiple eye-witnesses, the verdict was clear: some great beast had come in the night, from the forest, with a head that “blotted out the moon,” the commissioner had said. The men described a creature possessing a protrusion, like a spike that came from its boar-like face.
I have seen the vestiges of the house. The rafters lie, splinted. The derelict rests on the outskirts of the town near the county forest. A family of eight (may the Gods spare their souls) lived there. They went by the name of Smith. May their departure to Valhalla be swift.
It has been said, through local gossip, that Mr. Smith partook of certain beastial rites of bloodletting and offering- that his fascination with the occult contributed to his demise. Through neighborly predilection, it is thought that his flock of sheep had begun to dwindle. As he was no longer able to give provision to the beast, it took his family as recompense. The occupants of the Smith house were eradicated, then eaten.
No members of Alexander Smith’s lineage remain. Bloodied bowels, and limbs line the foundation. Entrails and brains smear the ruination of furniture.
If this is no hoax it is clear the giant has a penchant for human flesh. We do not know when it will strike again. It is under these circumstances that I pray for your aid, Dear Vaenir.
A Letter From The Earl of Canterbury County (Third Mouthpiece to the Vaenir) Dated March 17th
Mayor Balthazar,
Our correspondence has yielded many heartfelt discussions, so I will reiterate our sorrow at hearing this unforeseeable, dire news. We, the Vaenir, grieve the state of your affairs. Your situation is most grave, and I pray you Godspeed in your endeavors. Know your supplications are heard. For the sake of morale: this is the speech you must deliver to your fellow countrymen. If asked what muse possessed you, your retort will be the “enlightenment of the Vaenir.” Second, you must destroy this letter after you enact its purpose. We must establish order on a perceived basis of truth. Were any falsehood to spread, the People would lash out severely, and the esteemed livelihood of the Vaenir would be in far more grave circumstances. Remember your place as figurehead. I urge that the following extemporaneous discourse be delivered, at noontime tomorrow. I am certain that this would restore both the Order we so cherish in the capital:
SPEECH OUTLINE
INTRO:
Sons and Daughters of Canterville, (Enunciate!) I write to you after spending a tedious hour in the enclave of my study. You have offered my family food, board, and security as the mayor of our town, and for this we are grateful.
A. The reason for this discourse is not to exploit, but to remind us of the times in which we live. (Gesticulate!)
B. The foe we fight is no man. (Pause for emphasis.) I will reiterate this to reprise this haunting, and to validate that your fears are most founded. It is not my intent to reinstall this hysteria, only siphon the core energies so that we may rise again.
Let me provide an illustration:
A great river has many tributaries, and it is the allotment of such branches that impart its strength.
A river has no recourse. There is only the adamant resolve of flow, the charge of progress towards its end: the sea.
We, Country folk, course in a similar way. The time has come where we can no longer cower. Courage must possess all who oppose the beast.
I will quote the Late Cleric, whose advice we should undoubtedly heed:
One day our Sons and Daughters will rise again. They will inhabit that Fair Country, forsaken by the liars, and the warring. They will pry off their shackles with a might they will have never known. They will crush their bonds, and from the hands of their debtors they will rend their freedom. “
III. Meanwhile, we must congregate, as we seek further instruction from the Vaenir.*
(End of discourse)
*Depart swiftly. Accept no questions. Inform Us of any further incidents, especially if the people murmur.
A Letter from the Mayor of Canterville, The Second Ward of Canterbury Dated 17 March
At your behest, I delivered the speech with utmost tact, and discernment. I noted a calmness overcome the People, like a sanctuary, as I relayed the enlightened thoughts of the Vaenir.
It beset me with such couráge, Dear Vaenir!
It wasn’t until the end that our resolve was shaken. The beast came rushing from The Forest Sauvage. It lumbered over the field with a look of fury as I have never seen. Then, he took the poor farmer from the midst of the field, and ate him. I saw the blood spatter, and the bowels torn asunder. The teeth sunk into his torso.
He left the legs, at my feet upon the dais. “Leave the flesh to rot,” said the beast.
“Soot between my toes. Insurrection is mended best with martyrdom.” And at this I knew the farmer had been made an example of. We do not know the beast’s origin. Plucked forth from the reverie of which a few men could allow utterance and possessed of a reticence that encumbered his psyche. Yet by his colloquial intonation, he was learned by the works of Men. Despite the lilt of his kind, he had perfected the woodspeak of the people. How he had done it, remains a mystery. I suppose, he lived among men once-but fell from grace. By those in the Valley? We do not know. There are things which must be laid to waste, and if they rise again they must be slain, and burnt with fire. Afterwards they are not to be spoken of. Fear not my dear countrymen. For I was told, a fortnight ago, from a traveler whom I believe to be a Northerner, that a certain giant lies in your midst. The men of the high hills say he is the last of the Jötunn”–yet the Cleric reasoned, he might well be Nephilim, or Rephraim. Regardless of what he is, do not forget your birth. We are men of the Valley, and the Valley has bore you. (Cease your decanter momentarily; take a breath from the supposed “fire” in your loins. Empathize!) There are none so keen as to say they know the myth of man. For if this knowledge were known, so too would his future. We would deny the oppressors their way, and obtain our birthright. Were this concurrent legendarium to be forged we’d be of singular consciousness, but alas we are not. By the mirth of Aenir, let us pour the blood of our enemy into the sea. Libations. Egads.
A Letter to the Second mouthpiece of the Vaenir, dated March 31
The discourse went well were it not for the interruption. The beast, this mortal enemy of men, chose to strike at a time most inopportune. (Might I suggest that we garrison our town with reinforcements?) It came, rushing from the forest with a fury as I have never seen, possessed of savagery and hunger. Never had I seen him in the daylight, as I thought he preferred the cool concourse of night. I thought that He operated his wicked ways in the darkness. He sensed the dissention in my voice, and as our eyes met I saw a cavernous intelligence of marked wit and cunning. I saw the horn between his eyes on his forehead, as the ivory gleamed in the sun so I loathed it. And as he ate the cleric his eyes rolled over white with relish. Soot between my toes, he said, fool amongst men. And at this happening he roared, spitting out the head, and tossing the legs in the midst of the audience. This was his stipulation. Do him obeisance, with a slaughtered lamb or a goat. Or Offer him a daily sacrifice; a man on the first day of the week, a woman on the second. If any days were missed, he’d go for the family. At this speech, he told us his name–his real one given at his desolate, decrepit birth: Fjord, The God king
A Letter from the Second Mouthpiece of the Vaenir, Alexis Antoch, dated April 2
Mayor Balthazar,
Know that the Sons of the Vaenir will do whatever is necessary to rid the country of this mania, and restore Order. I have petitioned for Aid, and Recruitment. It should be arriving in the quickest possible way. We will send you a sign.
Meanwhile we urge you to continue imparting integrity into your fellow folk.
Do as the giant says, an offering to assuage his anger.
A Letter from Ignatia Allen, daughter of Balthazor the Mayor of Canterville, to the First piece of the Vaenir, dated May 1
My father, the mayor, was eaten today.
After a month’s time we have lost the last of our livestock, and have not had any surplus besides wheat. Upon learning this, and that there was nothing else for the Giant to eat, he offered himself. As atonement the Giant acquiesced, and took my father.
It has come upon me, his daughter, to oversee the workings of our town. We No longer will we lie in terror for the giant, the beastial half-man to eat our livestock. Why allow him food from the mouths of our children? The monster has raised our storehouses, and tainted our river with his excrement. We can no longer go on living as we do. I foresee an altercation on the horizon, with the beast as the victor. I will keep this belief to myself however. I smile for the sake of my people. On my promenades throughout town, I see the Melancholy in the face of my people. With their eyes they implore me: sustenance, and housing. Of a kind word, a smile. I have considered taking these matters into my own hands, and after my inquiry with the Lady of Bath, Canterville has but few options.
The only manner by which we can rid ourselves of the beast is by finding a few strong, able-bodied men to slay the beast.
I must lead them for my father’s honour.
Tonight, we congregate to slay the beast if we cannot receive aid.
A letter from the First Mouthpiece to the Vaenir, Cyrus, dated May 28
I strongly counsel against this opposition. Consider your townspeople, and consider your actions at this time. There will be many casualties.
I command you to wait.
A letter from Ignatia Allen, the daughter of Balthazar Allen, the former Mayor of Canterville, dated May 29
I will not.
A letter from Cyrus, the First Mouthpiece of the Vaenir, to Ignacia Allen, dated May 30
We tire of your insubordination Ignatia. If we lack unison, Our allegiance is now to the enemy. Consider this a breach of Contract. As such until your condition changes, we will limit any further contact.
A letter from Ignatia Allen, the Mayor of Canterville to Cyrus the First Mouthpiece of the Vaenir, dated June 1
Consider your words, Mouthpiece. If that is the way, then so be it. My conviction is that the words you speak are your words, and not that of the Vaenir. There are no gods amongst men. If there were, the question would elude us all.
Let them come down from their lofty city of Splendor. Let them forgo the honeysuckle in their Elysian Fields, and their Dance of the Hart for the alarm of anarchy and tumult. Rouse them from ephemeral slumber. Our mirth is the shedding of their blood.
I have lost many countrymen. After my father’s death, I now see the hopelessness of your way. Tomorrow night I will take it upon myself to slay the beast of Canterbury forest. I will tell no one about this venture. It is likely that I will be slain before dawn. I fear not the loss of my life, for one sacrifice will inspire my citizens. A letter addressed to the Lord of Canterbury County (the first mouthpiece to the Vaenir) from the earl
The serfs know of the Vaenir! This is not a concern, but a fact.
A Declaration of Independence from the Sons And Daughters of Canterbury County, a letter from Mayor Ignacia Allen Mayor of Canterville to the “Vaenir,” dated April 4
I have slain the Beast. It has been felled.
Scum, enclosed is the horn of the Canterville beast of The Canterbury forest. Take it as a token of our proud independence. We have slain him without your aid. Also the object is but a remembrance of lives lost, a cursed thing and We do not wish to have it in our possession. Let the bloodguilt of this ivory horn rest on you. Let it lie as a symbol of our obstinate disregard for you, and our piercing desire for the upheaval of your system.
Monoliths of fear will rise again, but we will overcome them.
Signed,
The Sons and Daughters of Canterville, The Second Ward of Canterbury County
What skills or lessons have you learned recently?
I have learned that sometimes the best of things are learned in the most trialsome moments. Difficulty can mould us, and refine us. Aggravation or the taking of offense does not result in mediation, growth, or learning. And instead of project, we must pause, and reflect. Digest.
Being an adult requires you to sometimes discount belief systems that you may have previously held. When you know better, you do better. The latter is not my own words. Look into it.
Words.
Words have power. And so does the absence of them.
Words, exist in texts.
However, it is interesting to me that if a book of text exists, and has existed for some time – there is a reason for it.
If a person goes so far so as to say that a legitimate book of text is meant to stand for an ideal, within said tribe or understanding: one may substantiate as this then, as truth to a people.
However, a belief is ones own, and ones own to carry. It does not mean that all people have to hold it, and it most certainly should not be forced on others.
In regards to the Inner Child, many have spoken on this concept. While we may lack accrimonial knowledge, as to how to grow sometimes we must recognize why we grow.
It is not by force, and it is not by logic itself – but rather what our knowledge base proccludes on over to us.
There is a state of exemplary knowledge that a person may go through and understand, and it is unfortunate that others are brought through this proclivity.
This is not a topic for Old men.
This is for the Middle aged men. Where have we gone to? Where are we going?
Will they continue to deceive? Or will they not?
I have chosen, with my free-will, not to deceive with what I know.
Though I recognize how systems work, almost to the minutae, I care to provide the healing. Or, as one would say metaphorically, apply Gillead balm.
Unfortunately, an individual who has caused the injury, is rarely the one to heal it.
I though, recognize that a person can turn from their way, and at most cauterize the wound.
To recognize that you were the source of injury, is a difficult thing. First, it must be acknowledged, that you were the one in error, and therefore understand that you are not the most ample one to heal it.
You cannot stay in the same place you were, otherwise the injury cannot be healed.
No. You must put yourself in the Third person, preponderantly, Omniscient, to recognize what both the injury is, and how you will heal it.
Acknowledge the facts of your plight Son, then work accordingly with your team to fix it.
In recognizing my inner child, I have come to the conclusion that it is required to come to terms with this fact. Why would I have acted in the way I did? What non-stoic absolutism did anger hold sway with was not recognized or understood within said nervous system? How could a man of knowledge falter from such a cause?
And can he rise despite repute, and public disclaim? What happens when we think of things in the Third person, outside of what others may think, say, or do? And furthermore – how can we educate others outside of that mental coral?
That is the subject of my inner child that I seek to resolve, outside of some Freudian Oedipal complex.
That is the subject of: Honor.
Being a man of honor is the man of the hour. Asiatic countries understand this.
But a person’s character is most noted when they take a stand for the right thing.
Now I hear MLK’s words, “the time is always right to do what is right.” The quicker the better. If you’re on the wrong bus, don’t stay on it. Otherwise you’ll go further in the wrong direction.
That, for all it’s worth is worth noting that my actions have been very child-like. And despite this irony, well I’m willing to admit it.
I moved to the United States when I was a one-year old.
My family came from Ivory Coast, Africa. I was born in Abidjan, from the Chu de Cocody.
My father worked in the lab in the hospital, and my mother – she worked and taught in schools teaching Portuguese, and Spanish.
On the luck of the draw my father hit the lotto. The decision to make it as an immigrant to America was dual fold.
America, under my watch, is the land of opportunity. It is rich in resources, people, hopes, and new ideas.
I see that as golden, and intrinsically so – beyond that I see that golden ebb over the hill.
We settled in Brooklyn, New York – and lived with Thomas, an amazing man of faith Ghana. Thomas, and his wife Janette took us in, and helped us.
As fellow Africans from Ghana, and the Ivory coast, our induction into the Midwest – was first by way of North Dakota.
By that byway, we conduces to the Heartland.
Now there are dairy cows, and roan cows that live here – but most are Dairy.
As an African living in Wisconsin, I have learned many things.
First of all: We are the dairy state, and we love our dairy.
We love our people, until our people dont…
😏.
And lastly cream is good. Ah, yes cream is most definitely good. (So, is Culvers). 😏 💯.
So, much so that I appreciate it.
We’re on food.
The provisions that I see here, are predominant, but I’m keen to see personal e homeopathy, personal care, and creative avenues of electronic farming ‘cropping’ up soon.
For one, despite all else, I embrace challenges here unlike anyone else. And that is why I believe in Wisconsin
The American Consortium against gun violence on account of all Children. A response to the NRA meeting held on November 14-16, 2025. Forwarded by the initiative of Good Shepherd Lutheran church. No Child left behind.
OnMediating Violence with Art
Copyright 2025. The Nebuchadnezzar Publishing House.
The following is an outline of a speech to be delivered at Good Shepherd Lutheran Church, in part of Holy Cow (meals on wheels their initiative to feed the homeless), by Eric-Anderson Momou, an alumnus of Madison College, and UW – Milwaukee. The degree he holds is in English: Literature – Cultural Theory. And an Associates of science from Madison College.
Furthermore, the following is to be presentedextemporaneously on account of the audience if the original speaker is unable to deliver it.
A speech by E.K. Anderson (Eric-Anderson Momou)
Hello everyone,
I come to you today not as a politician, not even as a neighbor, but as a friend.
And I am concerned on your behalf in lieu of the stream of recent events.
I am concerned because of the regrettable deaths of both Irina Zeretska, and Charlie Kirk; that have been the subject of headlines for the past week. Their lives have been amongst the most paramount of circumstances that have occurred in our world today.
(Pause for reflection).
Right now America is in a state of grief. The stages of grief as we understand them are:
One thing, I have learned about the Stages of Grief, with death is that none of these Stages can be skipped. And oftentimes, they overlap into one another. until we accept it.
(To which Kirk’s wife’s X Tweet – “Go to church.”) Really did hit home.
I’m starting to realize that this is the only way for me to heal.
I go to Good Shepherd. It is an LGBTQ safe church. And I, in fact, shed tears upon attending it for the first time.
One thing, I have realized is that it is not about white or black at this moment in time. It about those who believe in Making America Greater than she is, and has been.
We can side with racism: that being the collective opinion that every person of a certain condition, creed, or lineage is bad or we can begin to learn that or which we can do the opposite.
What MLK, talked about with love as the greatest clearance.
Instead of destruction, I ultimately believe in creation. Instead of defenestration, or destruction of public property, I believe in processing anger in a healthy way. Taking anger into account, Now, creation takes a lot to begin.
Sitting down at a table, and taking pen to paper. Taking a paintbrush, and painting on an aisle.
While I live in a predominantly Democratic State, I am aware that I lean idealogically on the right.
To James Telarico, it is in fact about Top and down.
Violence, we have seen, has been a rampant issue. Regardless of what implementation is used, it seems that it crops up at points most inopertune, and most incovalent…
In our world, it appears that living in the United States is difficult to come to terms with what we may feel, and why we may feel a certain way.
Despite these circumstances, what we see is well founded.
We may feel uncomfortable. We may feel an uncanny sense of disregard for the general populace, but the truth of it is that we must remain calm.
Lest we mournst, we must must amongst those who those who mourn.
I must though must not mourn amongst the gnashing and groaning.
It is upon this cliff, or some may say a mountain, that we must submit our greatest of challenges.
We must see the summit, that arid cliff on which mourn and not cast ourselves down from it.
Such an instance may cause one to pause, and reflect. To posit a self-reflect ion unto that which is necessary. And to examine the circumstances unto which is under so as not to go under such diress.
We may mourn upon the circumstances under which fate is dealt, or instances of violence occurring in our world today. It has caused me self introspection.
It has caused me to personally reflect upon the instances of violence that we have been a part of in this nation. The lack of personal culpability, or the admittance of error forthwith and there-in is of personal note to me.
To be self accountable is the substrate of progress. To say you were in the wrong
I do not concur with Fox news presenter Brian Kilmeade, who retorted to kill the homeless, and mentally ill.
I do not agree with popular influencer, Matt Walsh, who says we want their heads on pikes.
These are the current words of socio-political commentators. Words we know have the ability to heal or to harm.
It is on this evening, that in regards to the stream of recent events, and our own self-instilled faith that we have congregated here together today.
It has come to my attention, I, Eric Momou pronounced phonetically (like “air” + “ick”) last name Momou → moh-MOO) (first syllable like “mo” in “moment,” second like “moo” the sound a cow makes). It is ironic that my last name sounds like a cow. And my bank card (show it) has the very markations present of a dairy cow.
Amongst you, at Good Shepherd Church (meals on wheels in Madison, Wisconsin) this simple revelation may not be shocking. It may seem of happenstance that these coincidences have occurred to me.
But I beg to differ.
I, a citizen of the United States, as well as an African, now so dubbed in identity as an African-American man who believes and who lives in Wisconsin is also proactive as to this very notion.
Having noted that metaphor, I also note the state of affairs in which I live in. My significant other, brought me over here from the MeadowBridge library the other day, across the street.
We are not a conventional couple. She is white, and I am black. The dichotomy by which this exists is by no means less than apparent, nor is it a simplistic issue, as I posit in the minds of many.
We know this to be historical, true. She is from the South, and I am from the North.
Anyway.
There was food here, which I should reprimand myself for indulging in, I’m on a diet, and I was struck by the and upon making a public declaration on social media in which I said man must not eat on bread alone, in response to the rising cost of food prices, I was hated by many.
I said this in response to the current economic situation by which our current President has dangled as a carrot upon a stick in the view of many. Lest we agree with his degree of mercy, we shall not have food.
But I beg to differ. There is mercy of another kind.
How many have struggled to get by, and provide food for their children? How many of us have worked tirelessly only to have food prices go up exponentially?
The answer is too many. Too have been slaughtered on account of guns. Now we enter the conversation on a Biblical front.
While this is the truth, I choose to speak out, and while being hated for this truth there is still much to be revealed.
A life is a life. It doesn’t matter if it hails from Eastern European origins, black, or white, or Hispanic, or Israeli or Palestinian.
What I attest to is that _.
In 2024, I was amazed by the response of the California fires by way of the aid that came from prison felons. They assisted in calming the spread of the fires.
Because I was told that I could only speak in one way, or think in one way I was sequestered into a mental coral, a prison by which I knew I was shackled. Upon understanding my bars of incarceration, I sought a freedom of mind from group think, and subsequently to set others free.
I note that we stand on the shoulders of giants.
The voices of men, and the voices of women have been silenced for far too long. That is why I will be working with the Black men Coalition in Dane county, The center for Black Excellence and Culture, Journey Mental health services, the Cultural Network, Immigration, a public defenders, and Law enforcement in mitigating violence.
I will address this issue with poise, with amnesty amongst our borders and Immigration.
Let it be known that this consortium will be working with Domestic Violence shelters, most notably social services as well to end these occurrences.
I posit open discussion on the topic of mental health, a new consortium amongst people of many topics and many walks of life, to come together and evaluate laws in respect to gun and criminality occurring here in the United States.
If we are to Make America great, we cannot abuse civil liberties. No, we must look within at the choices we make, and how they affect others.
And Wisconsin, being the heartland of our nation, we must self-reflect, and pause before anger. Meditate, and look at ourselves in the Third person. No more green to red.
Yield on account of our emotions, and practice peace in what we do.
Such will be a Renaissance.
Therefore, I will be working hand in hand with our artists.
We must create. That is why I will be working with artists, and builders, our construction workers no matter their background in discovering their personal excellence.
Our mayor Satya Road Conway, has posited a difficult job. And though that mantra of convergent authority is difficult, I do suppose we conduce our bus system towards notable businesses for the transportation aorta of Madison to conduce to Chicago intravenously by way of train.
I am for electric vehicles.
No matter what culture we belong to, we recognize this as an international, and intersectional conversation.
EDIT FOR TACT (Remember not everybody believes, as you do Eric): Upon a difficult turning point in my life, where I betrayed those who should been most dear to me, I was at a moral crossroads.
I had an encounter, of some would say the Third kind. This encounter I do not posit as a normal encounter as one would have physically with another human being. And I do recognize, that this experience is not for all.
I remember walking from the library. Oddly enough, I started to hear whispers in my mind. There were many voices by which I could hear. And for a moment I felt as if the artist or writers bought of insanity had ensued.
At the nexus of mental health, I will say that hearing voices is honestly a strange thing. The mental disorder schizophrenia is an example of this.
While I have not been sequestered into the diagnosis of said condition, I do believe that we are beyond due for a discussion of mental health in this country.
Mental health, as a phenomena is in part matriculated in different categories in the DSM 5, a strict medical guideline by which medical professionals use for the diagnostic procedure of their patients.
Psychiatric illnesses, are understood as pathologies. They are diagnosed via symptoms, and with extensive medical training they are understood as diseases.
In the psychological, and psychiatric literature, the medical community surmises that the hearing of auditory hallucinations is indicative of a condition unbeknownst to many who do not have it. Such, is deemed mental illness. More so akin to pathologies such as schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, or borderline.
At the cross-roads of such we wonder where our lies. In the end, we have the freewill to make that decision. But I choose to use mine for the betterment of my community.
There was much destruction during the George Floyd riots, and try as I did to mitigate such violence, the fury was evident.
It was upon visiting the library that I was hit with a splitting headache.
However at this intersection I noticed a plethora of voices, and in such delirium the only sanctuary I sought out, was this very building. These voices were Legion – as one would describe a telephone patch with many voices speaking apart from each other.
I do not wish to get into the details of what I experienced, but I did note the voices were spoken in different languages, different tongues.
Good Shepherd Lutheran Church. For many who have been raised in church, the topic of homosexuality has been deemed an enumeration of Sodomy. They have been relegated as lost as was the account of Lot before destruction came upon them in the very city of Sodom and Gomorrah, by which our current ontology of the word hails.
Oddly enough, I sought solace from these very voices, and the destitution of my state came here.
However, the voice that I heard upon reaching these very church doors was silenced. My hand touched the glass.
And upon walking to the bus stop, there came upon me a voice that silenced all other voices in my head. That voice, as outlandish as it sounds, was the voice of my Saviour.
I have relayed that experience like a VCR in my head for some time. On rewind, it seems incomprehensible, even ridiculous but it stuck. And since that experience the voices have ceased.
I walked to the bus stop in the rain.
I touched the stake of the bus stop to the H and I knew there in the rain. As a black man living in the state of Wisconsin, I knelt at that bus stop. It was an odd experience and felt foolish, but something impelled me.
Being raised a Jehovah’s witness I prayed to the Yahwehnistic God of my upbringing. But as I closed my eyes, I saw two clouds. The greater one, a cumulonimbus spoke with a voice resounding with thunder.
I petitioned for it, as I recognized it, to be the voice of the God of my nascent origins.
That voice said, “Pray to Jesus, if you are to return.” For Jehovah’s Witnesses, or those of any Abrahamic religion praying to a man is seen as blasphemy. How could a man suppose the same authority as one would God?
I struggled with that notion for a bit, and after the voices became more intense, I had no choice but to yield to it. That Law, I felt was engrained in my nervous system, and as a result of my humility I chose to kneel. That humility I call “a glimmer,’ by which my very nerves were healed. I felt sense of recalibration, perhaps more can be researched in regards to this phenomenon in regards the community of neurology.
I remember the vision, from that smaller cloud eminated a voice. Soft and comforting akin to Matthew Brodericks adult Simba.
It calmed the voices, and so I knelt.
In the perifory of my vision, superimposed I saw three signs. One of a pill, another of a cigarette, and another of a condom.
There was a checkmark after each of them.
The voice said, you are to get rid of these three things if you are to talk to Yahweh.
Then I remembered the scripture, Jesus spoke of when he said, no man comes to the Father except through me.
I knew these words to be true.
So then I was led to this church by way of my signifcant other. I a sinner.
When my significant other walked across the street I followed her. The staff offering the tacos were kind. They were Mexican tacos, I remember from Holy Cow were amazing.
We settled on the grass. We had no seats, but we listened to the indie pop band under the tent. Their music reminded me of Iggy Pop.
A lady offered us chairs. Then, despite my discomfort, the sermon began.
A female academic spoke her testament, and the pastor said a prayer.
It was after the prayer, a disabled woman spilled cheese sauce from her feet. I asked Kirstin for a napkin, and wiped the cheese sauce off her feet.
It was then that I learned that I was being called. The signs are something I see in my dreams. I see a celestial chessboard wrought of starry pawns.That is why I write ✍🏾 in the genre that I do. It is in fact vision being made manifest in the genre of Magical Realism akin to Isabel Allende, the writer of “The Alchemist” Paulo Coehlo, and Victor Borge’s “The Aleph.”
(The genre I write in is classified as Magical Realism. The Latin-American authors noted above have been and continue to be my influences. It is how I express myself.)
I now know that my personal ministry has shifted in a different way to help all races of men, all lives, and all people. God is not prejudicial.
This ministry is far more than we would have understood, I believe. Dwight Eisenhower, the 34th American President, whose mother was coincidentally a Jehovah’s Witness, spoke upon these matters – in particular the love of liberty.
Liberty as we understand it is freedom of thought, freedom of mind, and freedom of speech. With the silencing of men who have posited a different notion to group think, it seems as if our Democracy has exacted community justicd
(That in our world today, I am of the opinion that there are some who have relegated cruel, and unusual means of exacting community justice.
This community justice that is decried is a schism away from actual justice. This is why we see so many differing opinions in response to Charlie Kirk’s assassination. In fact from history, I see that those who were in fact assisinated, or attempts were made on their life were in fact the most honest of our number.
-It is not the implementation of execution that kills a man, but rather the intention by which he is killed. The intention can therefore be used as an implement for the intended purpose. It is up to our freewill how that implement, can be used.
What I see amongst social commentators like Matt Walsh and Charlie Kirk, is the undying proclamation that they have used for times immemorial. That it is lawful to kill.
The truth is, that it in fact is.
Under these pretenses:
-A person has threatened your family.
-A person has threatened, or posited injurious harm unto your person.
However, the arbritors of said community justice has been relegated to the personal condemnation of the individual in power. In our day, this may be relegated means the Germanic man, who hailed from the Germanic tribes originating from Rome, by which they have had Celtic and Eastern European origins. These “wayward” tribes, anglicized after their perceived barbarism after the crusades, I posit have had a projection of self unto other tribes (othering). As colonialism continued in the 17th and 18th centuries, so did anglicization.
This othering has been of the kind, by which we in the modern day may describe as racism. A sort of verisimilitude into the public Oversoul conscience that is stipulated on the Truth from the Lie, darkness from glory, light from shadow or black vs. white.
Racism then, is the public opinion of a moral fall by which one member of a tribe dies. This collective consciousness may be falsely attributed to all members of their number.
I have heard of the killing by a member of the LGBTQ+ community upon children in a very church in Minneapolis. I have heard of Irina Zeretska, and the assassination of Charlie Kirk.
However, I do not believe that correlation does not equal causation:
A child may kill another children, but do all children kill?
Furthermore does a child who breaks the rules on a playground, such as throwing gravel at another child, not learn from their error. And even more so, do all children throw rocks? 🤔.
“Let he who does not sin cast the first stone.” A poignant statement.
No. Such that, not all LGBTQ+ kill kids. Also not all Black people kill Ukrainians, or whites. But there are and have been very many whites who have killed blacks, and other minorities.
Therein lies the lie of the substrate by which the enemy uses to condemn us, if we do not choose salvation.
What then do we choose.
The narrative therefore goes, if we as a Democracy have allowed faith in our African Americans, and they have killed a narrative of our democracy does that mean the epigraph of all African Americans? No.
In fact, I do not believe that entire group of people must be villiainized, and brought down on account of a select fee who choose otherwise.
Why then, must they be collectively all be mistreated on account of the action of one man, a tale of which we may know or not know to be true.
We do not hold one children to the same moral arbitration as to all of their number. Or do we? These are questions we must ask ourselves as Americans.
So then, to my point: we are all children on this playground until Recess is over. What happens after Recess is up to us, individually with freewill.
For men such as Matt Walsh to say the following:
“…I can’t even fully articulate it. It’s primal. We want scalps. We want heads on pikes.”
This was why I wrote All, Us Children, because Jesus said, “Unless you become as these, you will never enter the Kingdom of heaven.”
-Words as you well know, Matt Walsh, are incendiary. How little a flame it takes to set a woodland on fire. – I’ll let you figure out what passage of the book that comes from.
His words are holding true unto this very day. The Bible also says in regards to the very Jews who killed him that they do not believe about Jesus, even until this day. Ironically very many Jews do not have a channel to believe in, because of pride, I do believe, and lest they have a mediator by which they have empathized with slavery their Rabbinic belief still exists.
If supposed Christians continue to hate, that therefore continues their version of “racism,” so posited Anti-semitism.
Now then, if that person is no longer your flesh and blood, you no longer have a legal right to kill them or even protect them.
You can extend that, that is true, but what I see in your tribe is a lack of concern for your fellow man. Hopefully your neighbor disagrees.
Oddly enough through my escapades, I believe I have encountered the KKK. Harassed by them in fact.
I took up work at a hardware store. A man without an arm, with a prosthesis, labelled in an American flag met me.
He was looking for galvanized screws, but he didn’t know which size. I asked for what intended purpose? He said: for a motorcycle.
Interesting, I thought.
I also need a black pipe he said.
Black? I thought, that’s interesting. That word, itself is a dillineating trigger, of which I suppose is a demarcation between good and evil.
Okay, I said.
Ya… He said, something for the hose line.
“For the hose line…” I said.
“Ya,” I noted he sounded Southern. His hair was long, like a Hell’s Angel. Graying, and fraying.
Anything can be used as a weapon. A fist, a nail, a ring.
“What size,” I said.
“Three fourths, probably galvanized.” I noted his demure expression, an uncanny grin on his face.
I showed him where to find them, and he said, “Hmmm, not this kind. Nevermind. I’ll be back.”
With that he left the hardware store. He has since come back.
Either way, I figure, I caught him in the act. Gang stalking, while not recognized in the court of law, and is enumerated as a conspiracy theory, has a basis to those who choose to speak upon their experiences.
Either way:
-Cain killed Abel with a stone. It wasn’t a gun, mind you. The intention was to kill, not desecrate, or vilify. The intention was to kill.
The stone, therefore is an interesting symbol. So are pikes and scalping which are known as torture methods. They are another method by which to kill ones enemy.
Stoning still occurs in very many parts of the world. And I do not need to tell you which places by which these may routinely occur. The people that do these things are relegated under a moral code, and a moral hierarchy institutionalized for generations.
A bullet is made of steel, a modern day equivalent to a stone or pebble as would David would have used with Goliath.
To quote Malcolm Gladwell from his book, “David and Goliath,” a projectile is used as a modern day equivalent of a stone, circumvented with modern day propulsion, to reach an intended target at the hands of technology.
Beware of the interplay which technology can be used.
That “target,” if one is skillful, hits center mass – or some in the police profession know as the area in which kills immediately.
Words are incendiary as well. They too can be used as projectiles.
The declarative statements by which many . White men who continue to be for MAGA, on the Right continues to reveal the hatred for all who are not like them.
In the end though, I choose to love.
We cannot bar our hearts or our people from doing what is right.
Acts 2:17
“In the last days,’ God says,
‘I will pour out my Spirit upon all people.
Your sons and daughters will prophesy.
Your young men will see visions,
and your old men will dream dreams.”
Woe to you scribes and Pharisees who bar the way to heaven.
The Nebuchadnezzar magazine 