1.5 From Barnyard to Harvard Yard
How Sir John and Lady Agnes's Stairway to Heaven Still Haunts Us Today
Alvadore Algorithm
But losing Ginevra is the one thing for which I've never been able to forgive myself. And the effects continue right down to this day. Everything I've done, become, attempted, accomplished--- it all traces back to her. And I've had to do all of it without her. Utterly without her. So many times I've just wanted to call her up and talk. Just about things. Partly because she is in the sciences, and will definitely understand what I'm doing. Mostly because she knew me in a way no one else has. I did call her once, actually. But it was like a great chasm had been fixed between us. I cannot go from here to her, nor can she cross from there to me. In a way, it's worse than being dead. I know where she is; we just can't talk.
5.5.5—Harvey Oxenhorn
You'd think a smart guy like me would have figured all this out by now. But I haven't. Because I am not smart. I'm just a man with a one-track mind. Three gears-- first, second, third-- and no reverse.
And so I sit here, under no illusions. Understanding that I was defeated on that January 20 many years ago, and like some aging interplanetary explorer, I am now leaving her solar system, and entering upon deep space from which no signals ever return.
And it makes me wonder
…as I cross the Kuiper Belt, if there is anything I should know, anything that will make this life without parole pass any more quickly.
That's when I remember her father, Rod the Rhodes scholar, who’d wanted to name his firstborn daughter Ginevra. I'd met him once at his apartment in New York— distant, scholarly, stiff, tall. English formality without the accent.
Which I found strange for a business person, until Semmy later explained he was an import consultant. Then it all made sense.
I wonder if there is anything I can still learn from him. Go back and find he came from a now-extinct hamlet some twenty minutes outside Eugene, where his parents ran an orchard and chicken farm.
Rodney King was the youngest of six, and must have been getting in the way. So in his copious spare time he learned enough Greek at the local Gospel church to win a scholarship to Northwest Christian College. Then transferred to University of Oregon, where he wrote a paper on Aristotle's Metaphysics that wowed his professors, who published it in a leading scholarly journal. It got noticed, got him a year's graduate fellowship at Harvard, and a Rhodes scholarship for two years at Oxford.
Rod published regularly in the philosophical journals, mostly articles snarkily challenging the orthodoxies of his day, and returned to the US to teach and research at Columbia University, where he was regarded both as rising star and threat to the established order.
Finally the Old Guard had seen enough, and called in Dr. Friederich Solmsen to deliver the rebuttal. Solmsen was a towering scholar of his time, chair of Cornell University Classics Department, and Professor of Classical Studies at University of Wisconsin–Madison.
Hot Rod’s Highway of Death
Solmsen would retire from the honor-encrusted career that Dr. Rodney King was angling for, but would never achieve--- so devastating was Solmsen's reply that no university would hire him after that.
We see no more published work from Dr. Rodney King after this broadside. His career and scholarly aspirations effectively bidened, and a decisive statement made that such behavior would no longer be tolerated, Dr. King drove a taxi in New York City for a while, then got into the importation of liquors and fine spirits from the United King-dom.
From barnyard to Harvard Yard
From orchard to Oxford
Like another Oxford man Jay Gatsby
He was buying a stairway to heaven
Another Oxford Man?
And it made me wonder:
How long history had been turning on a dime?
How far back those 555-day spirals stretched?
So I opened up an Ancestry account, started a family tree with Rodney King's stats, and followed the white rabbit…
… Across the American West--Oregon, Idaho, Oklahoma, Kansas, Missouri, Illinois, Kentucky, Virginia, Jamestown, back across the ocean to Cheshire, Oxfordshire,
And finally to a church in Dodebroke, Devonshire in 1395, where Roger Kynge, son of Sir John Kynge and his Lady Agnes de Mortimer, was baptized into the Christian faith.
Then I started a tree with Ginevra King's stats, and followed the black rabbit…
…From the Chicago townhouse where Charles Garfield King had told Scott Fitzgerald that rich girls don't marry poor boys, to upstate New York, Massachusetts, back across the ocean to Yorkshire, Ireland, Essexshire,
And finally to the same church in Dodebroke, Devonshire in 1390, where Ralph Kynge, son of Sir John Kynge and his Lady Agnes de Mortimer, was baptized into the Christian faith.
Then I counted---
From Ralph to Scott's dream girl Ginevra ... and Gatsby's Daisy—
seventeen generations.
From Roger to Harvey's dream girl Semoira... and Robbie's Ginevra—
seventeen generations.
Seventeen generations—in direct, unbroken line.
Wow. That far back. No wonder it had taken this long.
I laughed wildly spun my wheelchair—like history turning on its dime— and let my eyes roll back in my head.
I was not alone in this universe any longer:
I had finally found my resonant pair.
And It Makes Me Wonder
Who else out there has written, sung or painted of these fair daughters of Sir John and Lady Agnes?
What tales of aching beauty and unmitigated disaster?
What other monuments to wounds we can neither close nor disclose litter the mindscapes of men who have dreamed The Dream?
Whatever your Dream…
Do not despise your unhealing heart.
It is the mark of your membership in a secret society, a fraternity only you can know, and no one will acknowledge publicly, not even in secret among those who belong to it.
Because the first rule of the next stage, Regret Space, is the Vow of Silence. And that’s why the angels are frantically trying to get your attention NOW, to pick up the line, to return their call.
For me, since I was twelve years old.
Abso-fucking-lutely embarrassing to say that.
Which is why I put this behind a paywall. I’ll never admit to it publicly.
And so… nowhere to be found yet everywhere to be seen. Scoffed at in the Times and CNN, yet 1usted after by billions. Because narrow is the way, strait is the gate, and few there be who find the website, the wormhole, the lost box of letters… that leads to life internal.
Keep knocking, and the door will open to you.
Keep seeking, and you will find your resonant pair.
You’re reading Five Stages of Unf*ck, Red Pill Journey to January 2.0, by Harvey Oxenhorn. Subscribe here to join the journey, and get subsequent posts mailed to your inbox and on your mobile app. And feel free to comment below with any feedback, questions, or requests.
Harvey Oxenhorn, is a cybersecurity consultant, author of The Five Stages of Unf*ck, Red Pill Journey to January 2.0. for the millions of men mangled by years of unchecked and unquestioned feminism, globalism, and Woke. He is also founder of Malwords Weekly, and author of the upcoming book, The Atrocity Algorithm, How The Media Became The Enemy of The People. Follow him on Gettr, Gab, and MeWe @HarveyOxenhorn