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Novid
[i] Note: This is part of a longer essay done by one Michael James, a highly religious man, who has told the truth of what has been going on in Germany and Europe in the last several years. Recently, he was taken to a Police Station, and after a interview with a very uptight officer, he wrote the essay and the posted the summons. The last five paragraphs are one of the most emotional treatises in to what has happened into the western world i have ever read. It fits into the last two topics i wrote here to a T, and makes you wonder in your heart and soul what is gone wrong with us.
And if any body wants to know why I am "Anglo-Centric" in my views? These are the reasons. [/i]
[i]It was on my way back to the centre of Bad Homburg, walking along the Saalburgstrasse in the intense heat of the day, that something awful began to well up inside of me.
I felt, quite suddenly, as if I had just been hit in the pit of my stomach by a sledgehammer. My mouth began to fill with saliva, which I desperately tried to swallow. I spied a telephone box behind which, thankfully, was an empty trashcan. Nobody was in sight. I simply unloaded most of the contents of my stomach into the trashcan and felt as if I were about to die. Even during my drinking days, I had never surrendered so much of my stomach in one single heave. I have never felt so sick in my life and I doubt I shall ever be affected by such an overwhelming urge to vomit again.
I made my way along the Urselerstrassse toward the main train station, but continued to experience the feeling that I may gag at any moment. Then, completely out of the blue, I was absolutely overwhelmed by an incredible sense of sadness. I did cry, but nobody saw me. The street was practically deserted and I was wearing sunglasses. I did not cry for myself or anyone else in particular. These tears came to me as an expression of something I felt deep down inside of myself that I still cannot fully explain; but I saw the world anew, and felt like a prisoner trapped in the matrix of an incredibly evil, indefinable captivity.
A taxi passed by and I picked up, for a very brief spell, a track from Supertramp's "Breakfast in America". It was one of my favourite albums growing up as a youngster in England. In fact, I lost my innocence in the quadraphonic pitch of "Dreamer". Her name was Sarah, and she gave me glandular fever. She was an excellent pianist, demonstrating her skills just seconds after I had felt the earth move off the Richter scale and my very being transform itself from boyhood to pseudo manhood. She looked across at me and laughed. This was nothing new for her, but there I lay in Seventh Heaven. Supertramp, Sarah, pianos, strawberry wine and the faint aroma of a late English summer evening.
For the first time in the 16 years I have lived in Germany, I suddenly felt awfully homesick. I know that those times have passed and will never return. But a wave of nostalgia washed over me. Led Zeppelin, Jethro Tull, Pink Floyd, Mike Oldfield, Gallagher and Lyle, Genesis, Uriah Heep. We were the generation sandwiched between the hippies (whom we detested) and the punks (whom we distrusted). Those were the days I went motorbike racing on an uninsured BSA 250 without a crash helmet. I used to burn up the country lane between Lytham St. Annes and Wrea Green, playing cat and mouse with the police who would tag me on their much more powerful Hondas. I was caught only once and the police officer, having given me a very stern lecture about riding without adequate protection, let me ride pillion on his bike all the way to the nearest tavern, whereupon he declared himself "off duty" and allowed me to buy him a beer.
That was England in the 1970s. We were free. I truly mean this. Regardless of the loathsome class system, Englishmen enjoyed a quality of physical, spiritual and intellectual freedom that may never be repeated in our time. We were free to ask troublesome questions. If you disagreed with what was written in the history books, no policeman would arrive on your doorstep and take you in for questioning.
Despite stagnation, a disastrous Labour government, water shortages, panic buying, pubs that closed early because they had run out of ale, parents who (in our eyes) transformed themselves from potato-gardening dullards into fascinating figures of fun following our intake of three of four crafty tokes of Mary Jane, the addictive fascination of the Twilight Zone enjoyed with friends in an attic strewn with banana skins and Rizla papers, we were all self-elected rebels without any cause to complain.
I argued respectfully and coherently with my teachers. I laughed at jokes directed at the Jews, the Scots, the Irish and the French, yet I was never arrested for a "hate crime". We ate high cholesterol fatty foods and remained as skinny as rakes. We got drunk on home-brewed wine and beer, rolled our own cigarettes and worked with strategic military precision to date the girls with whom we fell in love. It took weeks of incessant charm, the dispatch of flowers and endless evenings of sweet nothings running up massive telephone bills (thanks, dad) to get the girl. It was not about sex, but romantic love: French-kissing in the long grass, staring into each other's eyes until the sun disappeared into the Irish Sea. It was, for me, a time of magic and endless possibilities.
The England I loved no longer exists. The Germany I embraced in 1992 is now nothing more than a parody of a petty, backbiting police state: a Atonist banana republic of Christ-hating hypocrisy, fear, repression and growing poverty and hunger.
We Europeans have lost the plot. The show is almost over.
Yesterday I cried because I remembered what it is like to be free. I want my freedom back. I want my freedom so badly, it is hurting me deep inside and I cannot stem the tears. [/i]
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