No Kings, The Ecstatic Moment Of Meaning - Donald Trump As Women's Personal Savior

Vicki Adams felt mopey, listless, and traipsed through the house with an unfamiliar lassitude, flopping around in her slippers and robe. The silk Kimono given to her by her late husband had always picked up her spirits, but today it had none of its old magic.  She felt empty, a shell, a shadow of her old self. 

She shuffled to the kitchen, bumbled through the makings of her morning tea, nibbled an old piece of toast sitting in the toaster, looked out at the empty birdfeeder, and sighed.  It was another day like all the rest - purposeless and empty.  

The oomph and zip had gone out of her step. The angry harridan of her protest days was a woman of the past. Gone were the righteousness, the fellowship, the police dogs, truncheons, and paddy wagons of her youth, and the feeling of joy and fulfillment.  She had been making a difference, making her life count and now nothing. 

She felt insatiably angry at Donald Trump, a man who stole the White House from its legitimate occupant, Kamala Harris, a black woman who would have governed with compassion, consideration, and wisdom.  Now the usurper, the predator, the maniacal autocrat sitting where she should be sitting, was wreaking havoc, taking revenge on those righteous partisans who had opposed him, and destroying democracy. 

For months after his election Vicki festooned her lawn with macabre caricatures of the new President, ghastly, ghoulish, bloody images of him feasting on the bodies of the fallen black, gay and transgender.  She arranged kaffeeklatsches, teas, chat groups, and informal home seminars to discuss the state of the nation, the horror of Donald Trump, and the need for concerted action. 

The ladies of Bethesda were energized by these meetings and left with a new commitment to action.  The evil in the Oval Office must be removed and the country returned to compassionate, progressive rule. 

'I hate him', said Amory Phipps, garden club chairwoman, longtime supporter of the Democratic party, and a very agitated woman, at Vicki's tea party. She stood up, raised her fist, but words would not come.  Choking, splurting, and gasping, she was animate but silent.  The ladies around the table shook their heads in commiseration.  'See what that man has done to us ' Betty said to Sue, who nodded in agreement. 

When poor Amory Phipps finally had gained her composure, but was too moved to speak, sat down, other, calmer but no less passionate women took the floor and denounced the President and all he had done to destroy the very fabric of democracy. 

 

The women all left the tea party happier and more satisfied than when they arrived, but a sour taste lingered in their mouths.  They were still a bunch of old, post-menopausal women kvetching and grousing.  Sound and fury meaning absolutely nothing. 

Then came No Kings - and the brilliance of the idea was mesmerizing. Its core principle - that Donald Trump had imperial ambitions and was a dictator worse than Hitler or Stalin and was the embodiment of all the murderous despots that had come before - was unifying.  Disaggregation into separate liberal causes - the climate, gays, blacks, immigrants, Wall Street, etc. - was unnecessary.  'No Kings' said it all with everyone united under one banner. 

This brightened Vicki's whole outlook on life. This was what she had been waiting for.  No more sketchy, windy protests at the gates of the White House, no more rancid letters to the Washington Post, no more lawn signs, tea parties, and neighborhood camaraderie. This was The Big One, the great protest of the Sixties redux, the one that would spark a nation and force a resignation as stunning and significant as that of LBJ or Richard Nixon. 

The ladies were excited, happy, and expectant as they stepped on the school bus to take them to the National Mall for the nation's premier No Kings demonstration.  On this day hundreds of No Kings protests would take place from coast to coast, but this one in the heart of the nation's capital would be the mother lode, a beacon, the centerpiece. 

The atmosphere on the bus was heady and thrilling.  This was what they had been waiting for, an event that would not only help to remove The Tyrant of 1700 but would revitalize their lives.  This protest of thousands of likeminded women together in one place, united by purpose and passion would be epiphanic and salvational. 

The ladies clucked and crowed with pride and happiness, ready to sing Ninety-Nine Bottles Of Beer On The Wall, so happy were they.  They couldn't wait to get off the bus, set their feet on the grass of the Mall, look eastward to the Capitol and westward to the Washington Monument and feel the pride of protest. 

'Ginny!', shouted Vicki across a clutch of women just off the Gaithersburg bus to her college friend, now a florist and veteran of the protests of the old days.  'Wow!' said Vicki as she made her way through the crowed to give her friend a hug. 'Isn't this wonderful?'

The day couldn't have been better.  The spirit of camaraderie was in the air, a thousand soprano voices singing in unison, a Bach chorus, an Ode to Joy, perfectly orchestrated and choreographed. Vicki felt like a young girl again.  

 

She hugged and kissed strangers, embraced the many women she knew, shouted like a Southern Baptist at a revival meeting, whooped and hollered like a soccer mom at her daughter's first game.  It was more than a gathering.  It was more than a protest.  It was an epiphany and an an experience closer to what she felt at her First Communion than anything else in her life. 

She remembered her First Communion clearly.  All dressed in white, holding a posy of lilies of the valley, looking up at the cross above the altar and feeling the presence of Jesus Christ, she felt close to God himself as the priest put the wafer on her tongue. 

Today was no different.  Her feelings were celestial, beatific, and holy.  She felt a spiritual presence, a soul-residing beauty, a miraculous joy.  She didn't hate, she loved!  She loved her sisters, she loved America, and she loved the world. 

Not surprisingly the sense of joy, belonging, and spiritual purpose faded in the ensuing months.  The No Kings rallies had absolutely no impact whatsoever on the President who went on waging war, herding brown men into cattle cars for deportation and incarceration in Latin gulags, castrating black men, and enriching his Wall Street cronies.  

Alone, disconsolate, missing her husband, and her joints hurting, Vicki returned to her morning shuffles and crust of old toast.  The letdown was unremitting.  She felt emptier than ever, more despondent, hopeless, and dispirited.  

She filled her watering can and carefully watered her geraniums, careful not to spill a drop. Somehow extreme care of things was what her heart required. 

'Where's Vicki?', an old tea party roue asked when the next No Kings rally came around.  

'Moved to Florida', said her companion. 

'Where?' the woman shouted.  Florida? DeSantis, 'The Free State', the heart of the new Confederacy. 'Impossible', but the rumor was true. Vicki had packed up and moved into a condo in Sarasota overlooking the Gulf. 'She must have gone dotty', the woman said, 'otherwise...otherwise....'

There she stopped, thought of palm trees, sundowners on the deck, warm breezes, and retirement. 'Otherwise, nothing' 

The New Era Of Royal Democracy - Donald Trump, Darwinian Imperialism, And The American Empire

The No Kings protests recently concluded around the country - inchoate, disassembled, joyful affairs of liberal camaraderie - expressed concerns that Donald Trump was overstepping his constitutional authority, arrogating imperial power to himself, and threatening to turn the country into a monarchy. 

 

Nonsense of course.  Those protesting were simply unhappy that the President was putting the American house back in order, returning it to its foundational principles, and rejecting the fanciful, disruptive notions of gender reassignment, open borders, identity politics, and socialist economics. 

The American Left, still reeling from their electoral defeat in 2024 in which Donald Trump handily defeated Kamala Harris, a candidate who ran only on her racial identity and 'proud womanhood', is still licking its wounds. With no coherent, sensible, objective set of policies to counter the President's conservative agenda, protestors have  taken to the streets to howl, cry, and beat their breasts in frustration - as if those outcries make any difference whatsoever to a determined, willful, and self-confident president.

'What about the black man?', protesters cry, insisting that Trump's SS storm troopers are about to round up black people, pack them into cattle cars, and consign them to brutal gulags.  Gay men, lesbians, and transgenders will be sent to the gas chambers in a social purge no different than carried out by the Nazis - racial and gender purification in the extreme. The vision of a world run by women, surrounded by gay acolytes, celebrating a brave new world of diversity has disappeared in the wake of the Sturm und Drang of Donald Trump's juggernaut. 

Donald Trump has in the few short months of his presidency redefined executive power.  A man who cut his teeth on the mean streets of New York real estate, for whom legal action is child's play, and whose cutthroat, no-holds-barred victory at all costs creation of a building empire, has no intention of being civil, compromising, or accommodating.  

 

The world since the first human settlements has been violent, combative, territorial, and self-defensive - not surprising since those characteristics have been hardwired into human DNA since apes came down from the trees; but Joe Biden insisted that with love, hope, and charity a new utopian future was possible.  Through understanding, compassion and modesty the world could indeed become a better place. 

Presidents Putin of Russia and Xi of China licked their chops when they heard these nostrums, undaunted and unintimidated by America's admonitions. China made good on its promise to bring the Uighurs to heel, to secure Tibet within the Han orbit, and to make sure that Taiwan did not get too ambitious.  Russia sent its tanks into Ukraine fulfilling a millennia-old prophecy about Russian territorial sovereignty.  

Iran, happy beneficiaries of Obama's nuclear treaty which did little to slow the enrichment of weapons grade plutonium and the building of intercontinental ballistic missiles to deliver them and which did nothing to address Iran's support of terrorism and the building of an Islamic caliphate, were delighted when Biden took over the reins of government. 

Trump has joined the new world triumvirate of power, equal to Russia and China in their hegemonic principles.  All three nations are now unabashedly Machiavellian, advocates of Clausewitz, emperors and imperial regents.  

Each president is imperial in his own way given culture and history.  Xi rests on millennia of powerful Chinese dynasties which ruled the empire with authority, cultural integrity, and absolute will.  Putin recalls the storied history of Tsarist Russia, Peter the Great, Alexander the Great, Nicolas I and many more. There is nothing surprising in Putin's desire not only to recall but recreate Russia's imperial past. 

'We are entering a new era of royal democracy' wrote one political observer of American politics - 'a hybrid of imperial intentions within a traditional democracy'.

Donald Trump is neither a dictator who commands the loyalty of army and can call them out of their barracks at will; nor is he the product of Communist statism which has central authority and executive power enshrined in its canon.  

He must use the levers of power, the checks and balances of the democratic system, and stretch executive authority to the limits of the Constitution to achieve his ends. 

A foreign policy based on Darwinian confrontation, but within the sanctions of American governance, is the expression of this new royal democracy.  Trump wants Iran out of the way and Venezuela neutralized to keep their oil reserves out of the hands of Russia and China.  He wants to re-establish American hegemony in its backyard, Latin America, and has no intention of backing down on his promises to establish American control of the region.   

A crackdown on illegal immigration will restabilize America's borders and restore a modicum of cultural homogeneity - the re-establishment of an ethical and moral center so lacking in the progressive era.  The reopening of American lands to energy and rare earths exploitation will add to the country's geopolitical strength.

The waiving of wokism and a return to millennia-old principles of human normality will further contribute to America's solidarity.  And patriotism which will replace divisive multiculturalism will be the overriding, unifying ethos. 

A king in fact? Hardly, but a Darwinian imperialist in reality. What are world wars, civil conflicts, tribal rivalries, family disputes, ethnic demands, and religious aggression if not examples of Darwinism?  Human nature, that innate, hardwired, ineluctable foundation on which all action is predicated, is found in both newborns and nations.  Machiavelli anticipated Darwin, understood the basis of human activity and pronounced it indissoluble and permanent. 

Where does progressive idealism come from?  How can millennia of history be ignored.  Those who insist that the world is becoming a more peaceful, accommodating place are just whistlin' Dixie.  The Twentieth Century was one of history's bloodiest and the Twenty-First is proving to be no different. 

Conservatives accept this state of being and deal with it.  If the world is a violent, contentious place, then be prepared to counter the aggression, territorialism, and self-interest that threaten national sovereignty.  There is no point to sweet talking, compromise, or treaties.  Life has never been a bowl of cherries and never will be. 

Donald Trump understands this better than any president in history.  Yes, Roosevelt authorized the firebombing and incineration of Dresden; and yes, Truman gave the 'Bombs Away' to destroy Hiroshima and Nagasaki; but in both cases America was the victim of naked aggression.  

Trump intends to be ahead of the curve, to obviate any possibility of attack, to make the first strike, to obliterate the enemy.  Haven't Iran's intentions been exactly the same?

There are three years left in the Trump presidency and 'You ain't seen nothin' yet'.  The No Kings rallies are hardly blips on the radar and nothing but annoying fleas on a dog.  There is no 'there' there, no meat, nothing of substance.  Unlike the rallies to end the Vietnam War or to end segregation, the No Kings affairs are just happy jamborees, insignificant, minor episodes, weekends out. 

Meanwhile Donald Trump goes about his Machiavellian business. 

The Diary Of A Religious Seeker In The African Heart Of Darkness - An Epiphany Of Unimaginable Savagery

Angela Langford had grown up Catholic, but had fallen off the wagon in her adolescent years.  The whole story - virgin birth, resurrection, walking on water, loaves and fishes, 'I can see!' miracles seemed like one big charade, a joke, a charlatan's shell game, one great Ponzi scheme begun in the Vatican and shelved down until it became a parade of frilly hats, bonnets, and crinoline dresses. 

She had sat through one Sunday sermon after another, harangued, badgered, and warned against sin until she felt used, abused, and tinkered with by unctuous priests who retired to the sacristy and buggered each other until bleeding and sore - their only reflection of the suffering they invoked at every mass. 

'Once a Catholic, always a Catholic', goes the old adage.  The Church was so efficient in its making of Catholics out of little children that as adults they never lost the fear of a vengeful God, the heavy burden of sin, and the desperate need for salvation.  And so it was that although Angela swore off the faith, doubts kept returning, and she spent hours with the university chaplain hoping to resolve them once and for all. Fish or cut bait - believe or begone. 

She traipsed across the Old Campus three times a week to meet young Father Soto, himself a graduate of the university, schooled in the classics, history, and the strands of molecular biology.  He had never lost his faith, and in fact it had only increased over the years.  He knew about doubt and appreciated those niggling questions about the implausible myths of his religion; but was so profoundly impressed by the scholarship of Aquinas, Augustine, Athanasius, and the Alexandrian church fathers, that he based his faith on their teachings and the core beliefs of the Church - the divinity of Christ, the Trinity, and Redemption. 

 

It all went for naught, and as the semester drew to a close, Father Soto concluded the sessions, telling the young women that it all boiled down to a matter of faith. 

Given her doubts and criticism of Catholicism, she set out on a course to explore other religions which perhaps hewed closer to the essential meaning of spirituality; but she was put off by the holy-rolling, ecstatic nonsense of evangelical Protestantism.  Their claims that Jesus could be one's personal savior, come down from his heavenly throne to become a celestial friend were absurd; and where on earth did the notion that the Quran was delivered by an angel in Arabic to a poor, illiterate Arab goat herder come from?  

The Aryans on their way down to the Gangetic Plain from Mohenjo-Daro saw the universe filled with elephant gods and monkey gods, and Buddhists, rejecting all of it prayed to The One - one what, exactly, wondered Angela who had been attracted to the religion's simplicity and unpretentious devotion but got lost in its idolatry?

 

And that was just for starters.  She tested the Shakers and the Quakers,  She explored the new age religions - Scientology and its comic book electronics, The Church Universal and Triumphant and its Armageddon millennialism.  She left no stone unturned.

Joseph Conrad writing The Heart of Darkness understood the primal power of animism, a belief in the immanence of God in the natural world.  While Catholics in the sacrifice of the mass only metaphorically drank the blood and ate the body of Christ, the cannibalistic tribes of the African forest, barely evolved from the Paleolithic, understood the redemptive, salvational potency of eating real flesh and blood.

 

This was her last hope.  If she could prostrate herself before the universe, before the gods of thunder and lighting, and before a human sacrificial altar, she might find her way. 

Before she travelled to the inner reaches of the Congo, cutting herself off from the civilized world, she went to Haiti where a primitive animist, pagan religion - Voodoo - was still practiced.  Participating or at least observing these rituals would be a tutorial, a first step into the heart of darkness.

She was not disappointed, for in the hills far above Kenscoff she witnessed a bloody primitivism she had only imagined.  It was a wild, ecstatic affair with animal slaughter, the drinking of blood, demonic possession, and an experience completely removed from anything familiar or ordinary.  

'I am ready', she said; and so it was that she travelled to Africa, to the Congo, and booked her passage as far up the Congo River as she could past Kisangani, the last trading post on the river, onto a series of ever smaller tributaries which eventually led into the last virtually unexplored regions of the rainforest.  

Her guide, Emmanuel Ngoma left her at Kisangani.  'Do not go there, Madam', he said before disappearing into the dark lanes of the town.  'Do not go there'; but Angela had not come all this way to turn back.  She was not only unafraid but expectant.  This, she thought, might be the epiphany she had always sought. 

The trip was long and difficult, often impassable, choked with water hyacinths, shallow and narrow twists and turns, until finally she could go no farther.  Her boatman who had reluctantly taken her this far, fearful for his life but tempted by her generous payment, saw her off among the mangrove roots, and quickly turned back. 

Mungo Park, English explorer of the late 18th century wrote of his trips up the Niger River and how he was repeatedly captured, enslaved, sold and bartered from one tribe to another, finally able to escape captivity and somehow return to England.  His memoirs tell of the savage primitivism of the jungle, its Neolithic culture, and the fearful cannibalism of the tribes of the most interior regions of the forest. 

 

Angela had read Park, du Chaillu, Burton, and Conrad but driven by idealism, hope, adventure and a faith-or-death motivation, she pushed on into the jungle.  Along the way she kept a diary as had all these earlier explorers, and in it wrote of her expectation and spiritual coming of age.

Her remains - her macabre shrunken head and her diary, hung from it on a leather tong as a talisman - were found a year later by a Belgian missionary.  Attempts to find the young woman by Congolese, Belgian, and American authorities had failed.   Once she turned off the Ubangi and headed down the many unnamed minor tributaries and streams deeper into the jungle, she was lost to modern communications. 

The journal is hard to read, for it describes her ordeal in graphic detail. 'I am finished', she wrote, 'I have lost hope'.  The rapes, torture, disfigurement, and humiliation were unimaginable. They were done with glee, she wrote, in a kind of feral paganism that was beyond imagining.  The natives danced, sang, and howled as they encircled her, jabbing her with spears, licking her blood off the blades and driving them again into her flesh.  When she was nearly spent, bloodied, and bleeding they threw her into a hut with a joint of monkey meat, and left her to recover or die. 

Near the end managing only a barely legible scrawl, she wrote of the animist rituals outside the hut.  The entire tribe gathered in a glade open to the sky and began to chant.  The voices in unison grew louder and louder until it became a roar, and as she saw through the chinks in the mud and wattle,  a young woman was tied down on a primitive altar, raped, decapitated, sliced and served up to the priests around the altar. 

'God help me', was Angela's last entry in her journal. 

The Belgian authorities were reluctant to send the journal to Angela's parents.  It was simply too horrific, too descriptive of the inhumanity and barbarism she suffered to be read by anyone of her family. The Belgian High Commissioner in Kisangani gave the journal to the Franciscan priest who had found it and her remains.  He said he would be her caretaker, her advocate, her missionary; and alongside his Bible, he kept the journal and read its lines as if verses in a prayerbook.