Wednesday, June 10, 2026

Premonition: enforced citizen loyalty pledges to Trump are coming to the former United States

A richly detailed comic-book illustration depicting a humanised Statue of Liberty as a wounded young woman in a tattered white robe, kneeling amid rubble. She weareth Liberty’s spiked crown and reacheth outward in distress. Four imposing figures in ornate star-spangled military armour and capes loom over her, one pointing, another holding aloft a great American flag. The US Capitol dome appeareth behind beneath a dramatic swirling night sky with Saturn. The tone is political allegory—democracy or liberty under threat.
generated via ChatGPT

After that public relations catastrophe at MSG on Monday night, I am more convinced than ever that Trump is going to go to drastic lengths to enforce loyalty from the general population. Though he may thrive from confrontation with his chosen media and political enemies, his ego cannot abide by being hated by the masses. I have been having intense visions of this for years, and it came very close to happening, had the January 6 coup attempt succeeded. Now, after ten years, we are nearing the end game and Trump hath never been more wounded. But, we all know what they say about a wounded animal being at its most lethal. He is not going down without a fight, and not without bringing everybody else down with him. Very well could be a forced loyalty pledge that will be universally compulsory, enforced by door-to-door canvassing from an army of Christian nationalist thugs and law enforcement officers. This is going to happen, and most of the gun owners and authorities are going to be backing him. Most will comply in fear of their lives, or because they want fascism (and this is a huge part of the population, no more pretending it is not true). Pray.

linktr.ee/arthurnewhook

πŸͺπŸ’” #QueSeraSera π“…¨ πŸ•ˆ

Copyright 2026, Arthur Newhook.

Tuesday, June 9, 2026

A symphony for the open range

A detailed fantasy illustration of resilience, innovation, and agricultural stewardship in the modern American West. Foreground standeth a confident ranch-inspired woman with flowing dark hair, a cream cowboy hat, and a sleeveless denim outfit with an ornate Western belt. One hand extendeth toward the horizon; the other cradlet a cluster of glowing golden lights—knowledge, technology, hope. Behind stretcheth a Texas cattle landscape of herds, ranch roads, windmills, and mesas. Luminous pathways connect ranchers, livestock, vehicles, and field stations. Above, floating cities, celestial whirlpools, and a colossal ringed planet create a progressive-rock dreamscape. Warm gold, cream, and sapphire tones blend Western iconography with cosmic fantasy—determination, cooperation, and the safeguarding of rural livelihoods amid extraordinary trials.
generated via ChatGPT

Agriculture Secretary Brooke Rollins claims US food supply not at risk after second case of screwworm infection confirmed in Texas. {CNBC 8 June}

https://www.cnbc.com/2026/06/08/texas-screwworm-cases-food-supply-brooke-rollins.html

In other words, be concerned. Very concerned. Blind faith in institutions ends rather badly when those institutions cease deserving it. Absolutely nothing emerging from this regime should be accepted uncritically. Nothing. Every announcement, every assurance, every triumphant declaration: all are lies. 

As for agriculture, I suspect we have scarcely glimpsed the beginning of the story. Our way of life is utterly dependent upon a stable and productive food supply. 

Civilisations rarely collapse because people suddenly forget how to govern. More often, they discover that governing becomes considerably more difficult once harvests fail, supply chains fracture, costs spiral, and confidence evaporates. Food is not merely another commodity. It is the foundation upon which every other political, economic, and social arrangement ultimately rests. The health of a nation's fields frequently tells one more about its future than the speeches delivered in its capitals.

I am not a religious zealot, yet I confess to observing events unfolding across the world and finding myself wondering whether humanity hath become rather too pleased with itself. We are in an age of astonishing technological achievement, yet one of extraordinary arrogance. We often – too many of us, at least – behave as though every natural law has been conquered, every consequence postponed, every warning rendered obsolete. A society that ignores every warning because it finds those warnings inconvenient eventually discovers that reality is under no obligation to respect political narratives, ideological preferences, or comforting illusions.

linktr.ee/arthurnewhook

πŸͺπŸ’” #QueSeraSera π“…¨ πŸ•ˆ

Copyright 2026, Arthur Newhook.

Monday, June 8, 2026

The weeping republic

 

generated via Grok

Fewer Americans see the former United States as exceptional; young doubt democracy and the mythical ‘American Dream’. {AP 8 June}

https://apnews.com/article/ap-poll-america-250-democracy-exceptional-474874cbb88c08908c8b6c01e386ba91

linktr.ee/arthurnewhook

πŸͺπŸ’” #QueSeraSera π“…¨ πŸ•ˆ

Copyright 2026, Arthur Newhook.

Pine tree prophecy

A detailed allegorical fantasy illustration of political choice, uncertainty, and electoral consequence. Foreground, a determined woman in a tailored navy suit with flowing red, white, and blue fabric gestureth toward diverging luminous pathways. At centre, the outline of Maine gloweth before a radiant celestial nexus of geometric patterns and concentric golden light. About it rise capitol domes, floating islands, temples, statues of justice, scales, and assemblies of politicians and voters in debate. Golden and sapphire currents branch in competing directions—alternative political futures. Overhead, vast ringed planets and suspended cities dominate a twilight sky of violet, crimson, and amber. Mid-century glamour meets 1970s prog-rock album aesthetics: strategy, accountability, governance, and the high stakes of a consequential Senate contest.
generated via ChatGPT

David Frum: Democrats must cut problematic Maine US Senate candidate loose. {The Atlantic 8 June}

https://www.theatlantic.com/ideas/2026/06/democrats-have-choose-between-character-and-power/687464/?gift=9FZn7jkTomfZUUZKAohjmqjuczPr4bk5Zu0EyZtWKj0&utm_source=copy-link&utm_medium=social&utm_campaign=share

linktr.ee/arthurnewhook

πŸͺπŸ’” #QueSeraSera π“…¨ πŸ•ˆ

Copyright 2026, Arthur Newhook.

The vigil of the Ituri nurse

A detailed fantasy illustration blending public health imagery with cosmic science-fiction. Foreground standeth a poised Black nurse in a crisp white uniform with Central African textile patterns and a stethoscope. Behind stretcheth a vast riverine landscape like the Congo Basin, transformed into glowing golden pathways linking villages, clinics, and workers. At centre, a radiant cluster of virus-like forms erupteth in fiery reds, oranges, and golds, linked by tracing networks. Across the landscape appear medics, researchers, and patients amid forests and waterways. Above, floating cities, crystalline forms, nebulae, and a colossal ringed planet create a progressive-rock dreamscape—symbolising the scale and urgency of a great epidemic response.
generated via ChatGPT

WHO: Ebola cases in DRC and Uganda have ‘increased rapidly’ over the past couple of weeks. {ABC News 8 June}

https://abcnews.com/Health/ebola-cases-increased-rapidly-late/story?id=133685492

linktr.ee/arthurnewhook

πŸͺπŸ’” #QueSeraSera π“…¨ πŸ•ˆ

Copyright 2026, Arthur Newhook.

Sunday, June 7, 2026

Sister Patricia Jane, beneath the fallen seal.

A highly detailed digital illustration depicting a young woman in a stylised nun’s habit kneeling upon a church pew within a dimly lit Gothic chapel. Her hands are clasped in prayer, yet her expression speaketh of uncertainty and conflict. Flowing black-and-white garments drape about her as candlelight flickereth across stone arches and cracked stained glass. Loose documents drift through the air, suggesting upheaval. Law-enforcement emblems appear within the glass and upon a great cross. Cool blues, greys, and muted golds contrast with warm candlelight. Religious imagery, fantasy illustration, and political allegory merge—tension, controversy, and anxious contemplation.
generated via Grok

FBI fires analysts behind 2023 memo warning of violent Catholic extremism in Patel-led purge. {AP 6 June}

https://apnews.com/article/fbi-kash-patel-firings-e9793d06e6310bfcd848b55bf8c47cc6

linktr.ee/arthurnewhook

πŸͺπŸ’” #QueSeraSera π“…¨ πŸ•ˆ

Copyright 2026, Arthur Newhook.

Saturday, June 6, 2026

The price of hope: Madison and her dreams beyond the Garden gates.

An impressionistic fantasy painting of a sorrowful young blonde woman seated cross-legged amid a dreamscape of basketballs and celestial spheres. She weareth an oversized white New York jersey bearing the number 47. Tears streak her cheeks as she gazeth upward with yearning, disappointment, and fragile hope. About her lie scattered basketballs, crumpled paper, and pale crystalline forms. Above, immense blue-and-amber planets hang from vine-like tendrils against a deep indigo starry sky. The setting is a mystical grotto where natural and cosmic elements merge. Warm ochre, amber, cream, and midnight-blue dominate, with textured brushwork like an oil painting. Isolation, devotion, and the endurance of hope amid prolonged uncertainty.
generated via ChatGPT

Let them eat cake, he says. Knicks fan Trump dismisses concerns over $9K NBA Finals tickets at MSG: “They can watch it on television.” Unclear whether he will be paying to attend Game 3 on Monday evening. {Basketball Network 6 June}

https://sports.yahoo.com/articles/watch-television-trump-dismisses-outrage-084501972.html

linktr.ee/arthurnewhook

πŸͺπŸ’” #QueSeraSera π“…¨ πŸ•ˆ

Copyright 2026, Arthur Newhook.

Daisy and the last brisket in Texas

A detailed surrealist illustration blending mid-century pin-up with 1970s progressive-rock art. Foreground, a tearful blonde cowgirl beneath a cream hat, her curled hair lit by amber light. She weareth a fitted ivory corset top and frayed denim shorts—exhaustion, frustration, resilience. Behind stretcheth a Texas barbecue landscape of smokers, grills, cattle pens, and smoke. The sky erupteth into nebulae, Saturn, floating mesas, and impossible rock formations. Enormous cuts of smoked brisket and oversized grilling utensils drift through the heavens. Warm oranges, golds, violets, and smoky blues dominate. Distant cattle, smoke plumes, and glowing horizons speak of scarcity, labour, and cultural tradition under strain. Richly layered, theatrical, and emotionally charged.
generated via ChatGPT

Are we 'great' again yet? Texas BBQ joints close as beef prices soar amid 75-year low cattle supply and Iran war costs. {ABC News 5 June}

https://www.goodmorningamerica.com/food/story/texas-pitmasters-express-concern-amid-beef-shortages-rising-133612016

linktr.ee/arthurnewhook

πŸͺπŸ’” #QueSeraSera π“…¨ πŸ•ˆ

Copyright 2026, Arthur Newhook.

Tuesday, May 26, 2026

Sycophancy in the deep red: the #MAGA base proves yet again they shall never abandon Trump

Political and civilisational collapse rendered operatic, almost liturgical. Four women in flowing crimson gather amid ruins like priestesses or mourners presiding over empire’s end. Their intertwined poses yield ecstatic grief—sensual, devotional, catastrophic. Red dominateth: blood, revolution, empire, sacrifice. Ribbons snake like torn banners binding them as one symbolic entity. Behind, classical columns collapse, maps rupture, crowds surge, spiral voids open—one vortex holding a silhouetted authoritarian. The women, glamorous yet exhausted, show yearning and surrender. The central red-haired figure tilteth her face skyward in exaltation and despair. Dense linework, fractured debris, swirling cosmos—medieval and futuristic. Beauty and collapse are one. Apocalypse is theatrical, erotic, human—meaning sought even as the world fractur'th beneath.
generated via Gemini

{Texas Tribune 26 May} Ken Paxton defeats John Cornyn for US Senate GOP nomination

Sen. Cornyn's primary defeat this evening in Texas, and Rep. Thomas Massie's last week in Kentucky, reinforces that voters in these deep-red states and regions are, more so than ever, sheep — pathetically sycophantic, doing whatever Daddy Trump tells them, with no critical thought whatsoever. It is the #MAGA rank and file, above all others, who have condemned this country to catastrophe, and who must be held to account, starting ten years ago. They did not have to fall for the world's most transparent conman in 2016, then double down, triple down, and quadruple down on their support over the course of a bloody decade. Roughly a third of the population wants the rest of us dead, and now has the country by the proverbial throat; this is why they will never abandon Trump, not even if he murders their own children and grandchildren. These malevolents may yet get their ultimate wish. Abandon all hope: it is only getting worse with each passing day, as I always knew it would from the moment this long national, and global, nightmare began. 

Copyright 2026, Arthur Newhook

Wednesday, May 6, 2026

Hantavirus outbreak forces the evacuation of patients from a cruise ship bound for Europe: the next Covid, or merely a warning of worse things to come?

A cinematic, painterly scene shows a group of women moving along the outer deck of a large cruise ship during an organised evacuation. They wear light, flowing summer garments, now damp and clinging in places, and each has a medical face mask covering her nose and mouth. Their expressions, visible in their eyes and posture, convey alertness and unease as they clutch personal belongings—passports, bags, and small cases—while proceeding in a line. The deck glistens with moisture, reflecting a sky that hangs heavy with muted light. Behind them, lifeboats are being lowered by crew members in high-visibility gear, while additional passengers gather along the railings above, watching the controlled operation unfold. The composition contrasts elegance and vulnerability with the mechanical precision of emergency procedure, capturing a moment of tension managed through order and discipline at sea.
generated via ChatGPT

{NYT 6 May} ‘Hantavirus Patients Land in Amsterdam With More Cruise Ship Evacuations Planned’

A new pandemic cometh? To be fair, hantavirus doth not appear to spread easily, nor is it some novel mutant outbreak of the sort that emerged from the wet market in Wuhan in November 2019. And yet, what happens when there is another public-health emergency, whether this or something else entirely? How marvellous that Trump is in charge, for we all remember how magnificently he performed during COVID-19. Meaning, of course, that we have chosen to forget how badly he bungled it; all part of the larger pattern of a nation that hath simply given up and allowed one monstrously spoiled infant to reign unchecked, utterly above the law, above other human beings, above nature, and above God Himself.

If I sound like a broken record in making this point day after day, year after year, it is because people are still refusing to learn their lessons; not merely about Trump, but about so many things besides. And I guarantee that whatever brings about the next pandemic, the next shutdowns, and the like, people will handle it every bit as badly as they did in 2020, if not worse. At the very least, one would have thought that a renewed emphasis on hand-washing, or on the most basic hygiene — such as covering one’s mouth when coughing! — might have endured. But not even that. #Murica

Copyright 2026, Arthur Newhook.

Saturday, April 25, 2026

Grand Old Pedophile-enablers: Only eight of the twenty-six Republicans on the House Oversight Committee are willing to go on the record over any prospect of leniency for Ghislaine Maxwell

Photograph of Jeffrey Epstein and Ghislaine Maxwell at a dimly lit social gathering. Epstein, in a navy blazer and pale blue shirt, stands with a reserved, closed-mouth expression, his arm draped around Maxwell’s shoulders. Maxwell, wearing a fitted, light-toned top and dark skirt, leans into him and smiles broadly towards the camera. Behind them, other guests mingle with drinks in hand, their figures softly blurred against a dark interior backdrop. The composition conveys an atmosphere of casual affluence and intimacy, typical of a private evening event.
NYT

{Forbes 25 April} ‘Only 8 Of 26 GOP Committee Members Say Ghislaine Maxwell Shouldn’t Be Pardoned’

As ever, these Republicans live in sheer terror of alienating Trump’s acolytes amongst the masses, and they know that the American people, in general, are giving the convicted felon a pass for his multitude crimes (Epstein, collusion with Russia, the attempt to overturn legitimate election results, January 6, the criminal mishandling of the COVID pandemic, betraying our allies, and so much more). We know that the likes of Representative Thomas Massie are risking their careers — and far more besides — in trying to do the right thing in the face of mass indifference and, in many quarters, outright hostility from the public. Remember, Maxwell made it known some weeks ago that she would speak only if Trump granted her a full pardon. And she is going to receive one, I stand by that. 

Copyright 2026, Arthur Newhook.

Friday, April 10, 2026

Inflation has climbed to its highest level since 2022, and the same nation that screamed bloody murder over it under Joe Biden now looks the other way even as it bears the cost

A softly rendered allegorical illustration shows a platinum-blonde young woman with blue-tinted hair ends reclining upon a crumbling stone throne amid the ruins of empire. She wears a translucent white drape over a casual top, layered bracelets, rings, and lace-up gold sandals, and rests her cheek upon one hand with an expression of weary detachment. In the other hand she loosely holds a petrol pump nozzle, its hose trailing down beside a sign reading “$4.00+ below gallon”. Around her lie coins, scattered newspapers, and papers marked “Medicare”, while a badge labelled “Peacemaker” sits among the debris. Behind her rise broken columns, a large eagle crest, and draped banners; in the distance, aircraft cross a smoky sky above a burning city. The image turns consumer anxiety, imperial decay, and political theatre into a languid, satirical fantasy.
generated via ChatGPT

{Yahoo! Finance 10 April} “Consumer prices in March saw the largest monthly gain since 2022 as the US-Israel war against Iran sent gas prices skyrocketing past $4 a gallon”

A surge attributable almost entirely to Donald Trump’s humiliating and utterly futile adventure in Iran. Yet where, I pray, is the indignation from the American people that was so freely directed at President Joe Biden during his term of office? For Mr Biden, at the least, did endeavour to bridle inflation and uphold essential government services, whereas we now have Trump bellowing about cutting Medicare and Medicaid because the United States must pay for wars before anything else (at the same time declaring himself a peacemaker and demanding a Nobel Prize for it). And all the while, Trump is blatantly and shamelessly lying about the cost of gas, food, etc., and the media and general public shrug their shoulders (‘Trump being Trump’). James Carville’s oft-quoted maxim — ‘It’s the economy, stupid’ — no longer applies in post-Obama #Murica: its poor, white, rural denizens hath decided, time and again, that their resentments and grievances outweigh every other consideration, including their own financial survival. Thus they, and the rest of us in this polyglot empire who never wanted this madness and did what we could to prevent it, are being shunned and left behind by the wider world. For that, there shall be no redemption. Y'all done f**ked' up.

Copyright 2026, Arthur Newhook.

Wednesday, March 18, 2026

The Dow Jones sinks to a 2026 low amid renewed inflation anxieties. Do not expect the American people to ever hold Donald Trump to account for it, or anything else

A cinematic digital illustration set on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange. In the foreground, a pale young woman with long auburn hair sits barefoot on the polished marble, wrapped loosely in cream satin that slips from her shoulders and pools around her legs. Tears stream down her face as she looks upward with a stricken, searching expression, her arms crossed tightly over herself in a gesture of vulnerability and self-protection. Behind her, blurred traders in dark suits hurry through the vast hall while loose papers drift across the scene. Towering ticker boards glow overhead with falling red numbers and scattered green figures, reinforcing the sense of financial panic. Warm golden light from high windows catches her hair and skin, contrasting with the cold institutional chaos around her.
image generated via ChatGPT

{CNBC 18 March} “Dow tumbles more than 750 points to new closing low for 2026, fueled by inflation woes; Fed holds steady on rates”

Curious how ‘y’all’ are enjoying this beautiful economy that was promised by your orange godking?

No need to ask. So long as grievance remains the organising principle, and the American people – at least, the ruling white trash coalition that comprises the vast majority of the country’s gun owners, law enforcement, military personnel, assorted Christian leaders, trailer park dwellers, conspiracy theorists, dedicated racists, and suburban lay folks of what we used to know as ‘the middle class’ – are granted licence to hate without consequence, no amount of bad news will touch Donald J. Trump. Allegations of sexual misconduct. An attempted coup. Criminal mismanagement of a once-in-a-century medical crisis. We are not even scratching the surface — and still he remains insulated.

All because a culture animated by resentment would rather suffer than surrender its animus. Stop trying to reason with it. When cupboards empty, someone else (be it Joe Biden, or whoever Trump hath anointed as the villain of the day on any given day) will be blamed. It never fails. Hell on Earth. 

Copyright 2026, Arthur Newhook.

Wednesday, March 4, 2026

The giddy circus of pathologised frailty


Modernity is so obsessed with labels because it is terrified of mystery: is anyone else thoroughly sick of these sanctimonious little memes that continually choke our timelines on Facebook, and elsewhere? Who even is producing this bloody drivel!? And why is it always so predictably tethered to some solemn pronouncements about alleged “narcissists”? Somewhere within the last ten to fifteen years, give or take, “narcissism” hath expanded from a specific, scientific descriptor rarely used by the general public into a universal solvent and catch-word buzz-word, dissolving every nuance it touches. I scarcely recall encountering the term in ordinary conversation, real life, before that period; now it is deployed with monotonous certainty to explain virtually everything.

Any personality disorder, any genuine injury or merely imagined affront, any defect that is real, exaggerated, misread, or simply inconvenient gets bundled into the same accusatory category — particularly when the subject is male (women, I’ve gathered, are more often labeled as “hysterical” or “unsafe”; in both cases, the individual is erased). It hath become less a diagnosis than a fashionable epithet: a moral cudgel masquerading as insight. And is it any wonder, under such conditions, that trust has withered — that people approach one another as potential threats rather than imperfect fellow creatures — when this poisonous, pseudo-therapeutic slurry is everywhere, presenting itself as “self-help” while quietly training everyone to interpret human frailty as pathology?

These bloody memes — like the ones in the screenshot with their "early red flags" and "humiliation" tactics — are the aesthetic opposite of glamour. Flat, ugly, and devoid of the nuance that once made human connection beautiful. The word "narcissist" is all too often a shield to avoid the messy work of actually knowing someone. Enough. Full stop to this f**king nonsense! I have had my fill of the whole giddy, self-righteous circus. And if I am a "narcissist" for saying so, oh bloody well! 

"We do not see things as they are, we see them as we are."AnaΓ―s Nin.

Copyright 2026, Arthur Newhook.

Monday, March 2, 2026

Vulnerability: perhaps the single most damning reality of living as a man in this ungrateful and impossible world

A stylised, vintage pin-up illustration depicts five glamorous women in lingerie gathered in a cluttered artist’s studio, laughing and sharing gossip. Two brunettes and three blondes, all with carefully waved hair, bright lipstick, and jewellery, pose in playful groups: one woman leans in to whisper to a redhead in a satin slip, while another sits forward in a black corset and stockings, head thrown back in laughter, holding a wine glass. At the left, a blonde reclines on a table beside scattered sketches, paintbrushes, and a palette; a glass of red wine sits nearby and another appears spilled. In the background, an easel holds a nude painting, with additional figure studies pinned to the wall beneath a hanging lamp’s warm glow.
image generated via ChatGPT

You women and girls, by and large, are repelled by men who display vulnerability – who admit to fear, or confess to the raw desolation that attends desperation. It is simple biology, dating back to the Stone Age. Yet it is also biology that men, when reduced to their most human extremity, are hardwired to seek comfort and solace from women in precisely such moments. To whom else, in practice, are we expected to turn? Who are the first to comfort us upon entering this world? Biology.

Society, taken as a whole, continues to instruct men that they must swallow everything: bear pain without complaint; transmute anguish into stoicism; and do it all with a happy face, as though suffering were a private eccentricity best concealed for the comfort of others. As if suffering is a virtue. How sick. I hope it is understood by all reading this – women, men, and third parties alike – that we men are caught in an eternal Catch-22 in the realm of feeling and attachment: we are told to be emotionally available, yet punished for emotional need; urged towards honesty, yet tacitly sanctioned only so long as that honesty never becomes inconvenient. It makes living as a man on this planet really, really f**king s**tty – and these are not caveman times; we should be evolving. Instead, given the way everything is going in the world at large, we are heading back towards the caves – though I digress. I shall, mercifully, be dead for that. Still, it would be nice to have a little love back in my life before it all crashes down, and not let biology and ancient prejudices get in the way of anything. #JustSaying

Copyright 2026, Arthur Newhook.

Sunday, March 1, 2026

Bombing Iran is not going to erode Donald Trump’s support in a society that revolves around grievance. After all that hath been said and done, to believe that anything will do so is fool’s gold

A dramatic, realist illustration shows an Iranian woman standing amid the wreckage of a devastated neighbourhood. She has long dark hair and wears a dusty headscarf and a dirt-streaked grey tunic over loose trousers, her bare feet on broken stone and splintered timber. Bruises and dried blood mark her cheek, and she looks upward with a stunned, searching expression. Behind her, ruined buildings collapse into heaps of rubble; smoke boils into a grey sky and an orange flare burns in the distance. A small flag is faintly visible through the haze. In the foreground, a discarded stuffed rabbit lies on the debris beside a red toy, underscoring the civilian cost of the destruction.

Following the attack on Iran, I am yet again watching my fellow Trump detractors, on social media and elsewhere, put far too much faith in the American people as a whole. For years now, something big happens that would ruin any other politician, and they swear this is finally the end for Trump. No — even when he was defeated and sent into exile for four years, he still dominated the headlines and dictated public discourse. They keep underestimating the strength of the hold this one charismatic man hath upon the collective psyche of the country. If the general public is not in revolt now, when it is reasonably obvious that the president committed unspeakable crimes against minors on Epstein’s island — never mind having blatantly orchestrated a coup attempt, grossly mismanaged the worst public-health crisis in a century, attempted to kneecap the world’s largest economy with brain-dead policies, and appointed an anti-vaxxer lunatic to oversee public health — then they are not going to revolt over a conflict on the other side of the world. Not this country. Not these people.

Americans, historically, fall into lockstep the moment a fresh war or conflict breaks out. The Iraq War was massively popular before it was massively unpopular. Isolationism was a default posture for a vast swathe of the public right up to the morning of 7 December 1941 — then, in an instant, it became non-existent. This reflex is not new: the American people, in the aggregate, are sheep. They do what they are told, and they always have.

Roughly sixty to seventy-five per cent of Americans either fervently support Trump; or support him begrudgingly because he is not a Democrat; or possess some personal and/or financial interest in doing so; or—most commonly—do not care and simply look the other way (i.e. they are apolitical). Only about a quarter, at most a third, actively and vocally disapprove of Donald Trump.

So no: if his extreme megalomania and narcissism (I hate to use that grossly overused word, but it fits in his case), his paedophilia, treason, racism, economic malfeasance, felony convictions, and the wider menagerie of criminality and cruelty barely raise an eyebrow with the vast majority of Americans, then bombing Iran is not going to do it either.

And of the roughly thirty per cent or so who eagerly support this regime, they do so for one reason: they are granted licence to hate other Americans. Period. They will bear economic hardship for it—and they already have. They may not like the country being dragged into another foreign conflict, but it is not a dealbreaker. Nothing is a dealbreaker so long as that permission to hate remains intact.

People are really this awful. That is the hardest lesson we have been forced to learn over the past ten years. And we are not getting out of this hellhole any time soon. —Arthur Newhook, 1 March 2026.

Saturday, February 28, 2026

“Trump has tipped the Middle East into a massive war that could last weeks” — or months, or years

A Reuters news photograph captures a cityscape in Tehran on 28 February 2026, moments after US-led strikes. Two immense columns of dense grey smoke billow upward from beyond low-rise residential and commercial buildings, their mushrooming plumes stark against a pale, cloud-dappled sky. In the foreground, several men stand upon a flat rooftop beside ventilation units and satellite dishes, their bodies angled towards the rising smoke as they watch in tense stillness. The concrete parapets, clustered air-conditioning units, and tightly packed faΓ§ades emphasise the urban density of the scene. The image conveys abrupt violence intruding upon ordinary civilian space, the towering smoke columns dominating both skyline and attention.
Reuters

{Sky News 28 February} US and Israel attack the Iranian capital with the goal of regime change.

The nefarious Iranian regime hath long courted precisely this sort of escalation; yet the orange-stained regime in Washington is scarcely less reckless, and no less morally compromised. It is difficult to avoid the suspicion — more to the point, certainty — that these strikes are being exploited as a convenient diversion for Donald Trump: a spectacle designed to distract the #Murican masses from the fact they are being ruled by a paedophile. And, to that end, it will work: in a country so coarsened and credulous, any resistance in earnest to the laundering of what is beyond grotesque and indefensible is practically non-existent.

Israel’s position is more complex, of course. Its security concerns regarding Iran are real and severe, and long-standing. Twenty years ago, we were talking about the likelihood of a bloody conflict. Even so, it is entirely plausible that Bibi Netanyahu, too, may welcome a crisis that shifts the focus from his internal political troubles, and his reliably deferential posture towards Trump hath been dispiriting to anyone who supports both Israel and democratic, egalitarian governance in this world. Going along with Trump on this is a high-stakes gamble; as I write, reports are emerging that Tehran hath launched retaliatory strikes on Tel Aviv. However one parses it, the outlook is bleak — extremely bleak. And, remember, the Iranian bear nukes. 

Copyright 2026, Arthur Newhook.

Saturday, February 14, 2026

#Azumeria: a Valentine's Day lament for the most aloof girl I've ever known

A digitally rendered portrait presents a young woman seated upon a veranda, her back lightly inclined against a red-brick wall. Her hair, dyed in iridescent gradients of cobalt and teal, is gathered into a loose ponytail, with blunt fringe framing a face of luminous, porcelain complexion. She regards the viewer with a poised, faintly enigmatic smile; her eyes, a cool cerulean, are accentuated by precise eyeliner and long, dark lashes. A small septum ring and multiple delicate ear piercings introduce a contemporary, alternative inflection to her otherwise serene countenance. She wears a deep blue garment whose neckline reveals the elegant architecture of collarbone and shoulder. Behind her, a painted balustrade and verdant foliage dissolve into a softly sunlit garden, the sky suffused with warm, late-afternoon tones. The illustration combines graphic-line precision with painterly shading, creating a vibrant yet composed aesthetic.

#Azumeria Happy Valentine’s Day. Alas, my erstwhile punk rock princess ranks lowly in the annals of girls I’ve loved before. Over the span of nearly twenty years — beginning in that accursed, long-shuttered record shop on the Middlesex Turnpike in Burlington, MA, and then intermittently thereafter as thou drifted from one corner of this country to another — thou didst move in and out of my life with restless inconsistency.

When last we spoke, it was during the year of the pandemic. I had resolved to visit thee in Reno, Nevada, clear across the continent. Tickets were purchased; arrangements carefully made. And yet, in thy customary fashion, thou unravelled the plan entirely. And I lost hundreds of dollars on it, which I really could not afford to lose. Still waiting on reimbursement from thee for that.

Thou wast ever among the most distant and inscrutable souls I have known — and I have known a fair number, myself included at many junctures, none too proud to say. In the final reckoning, it amounted to little more than wasted years and misplaced investment.

I can only hope that the little girl thou bore at, what, 42 — and to a baby Daddy barely out of high school, a spoiled little rich boy with a most punchable face that thou meet in the halls of Alcoholics Anonymous (do not even get me started on that cult) — is not suffering unduly. The one I was looking so forward to meeting, but never shall. But, she probably is suffering, and is still quite young. Nothing I can do.

Copyright 2026, Arthur Newhook.

#Enchantra A Valentine Day's lament for a girl in East Tennessee

A highly stylised, mid-century glamour illustration depicts a blonde woman seated at an ornate vanity, her chin poised lightly upon her hand in a gesture of composed allure. Her hair falls in lustrous, sculpted waves, rendered in molten gold tones; her make-up is immaculate, with arched brows, softly contoured lids, and lacquered crimson lips that gleam against porcelain skin. She wears a black dress with a lattice-like neckline and a delicate pendant resting at her collarbone. Behind her, a heart-shaped mirror frames a swirling, nebular fantasia of incandescent reds, corals, and violets, as though the cosmos itself had liquefied into Valentine ornamentation. Translucent hearts and rose petals drift across a paisley-suffused backdrop. Upon the gilded dressing table stand faceted perfume flacons and a powder box, their glass and metal surfaces scintillating in warm, studio-like light that suffuses the entire composition with romantic, saturated radiance.

#Enchantra Happy Valentine’s Day. Didst thou remember to send a card to the child-raping, nation-killing demagogue whom thou worshippest as Lord and Saviour, whilst giving lip service to Jesus — the one whose name is now bound to scandal, secrecy, and redacted files, and whose Department of Justice hath seen fit to obscure more than it hath revealed?

I lament that thou once possessed a heart of gold, and then didst allow political, familial, and societal pressure to harden it when that orange demagogue emerged and told ‘y’all’ precisely what ‘y’all’ had long been waiting to hear. And somehow, in all of this, thou didst choose to blame me for thy heart and soul turning sour.

Well, I thank thee kindly for wasting more than eight years of my life — eight years invested in someone who surrendered her judgement to a cult of grievance and cruelty, along with the rest of the yahoos living around there. (It was a long-distance affair, though I visited her and her family in East Tennessee and became well acquainted — to say nothing of the countless hours she kept me on the telephone most every night, for years.)

Someday thou shalt fall to thy knees — not in worship, but in reckoning — and plead with God for having held so fast to the support of so obvious a con-man and horrifically evil entity. Someday thou shalt seek my forgiveness, and the forgiveness of every soul oppressed in the name of thy Lord and Saviour, Donald Trump.

Make no mistake: I am not pining for thee, nor do I care much any longer about the private relationship issues we endured; but I am eternally furious that thou wouldst betray every principle thou once upheld in order to support a tyrant — and for what gain? To the contrary, he robs us all of everything. Wake up, grow up, and repent.

—‘Christopher Robin’

Copyright 2026, Arthur Newhook.

Friday, February 13, 2026

#Enchantra: a lament for a kind lady lost to the scourge of Trumpism

Painterly, close-cropped portrait of a blonde woman rendered in luxuriant, swirling impasto. Her long hair billows outward in molten ribbons of gold, amber, and copper, filling the frame with kinetic, flame-like movement. Tiny starbursts glint amid the strands, as though sparks have caught in the waves. She tilts her head slightly downward, eyes half-closed in a serene, self-possessed expression, lips faintly curved. A dark, low-cut garment contrasts with the incandescent palette, its matte depth anchoring the composition. The brushwork is textured and tactile, with visible strokes that fuse figure and background into a single vortex of light and colour, evoking both celestial radiance and the theatrical glamour of a modern mythic muse.

I remain perpetually angered that the woman with whom I shared more than eight years of my life — let us call her Enchantra, once the gentlest and kindest soul I had ever known — hath now devoted a decade to the cult of Donald Trump, QAnon, and sundry other manifestations of embittered, reactionary dogma. I told her so — plainly and without ornament — as recently as last week. The pallid, evasive reply I received this time sufficed: somewhere in the deep chambers of her conscience, she knows I am right. Yet she holdeth fast.

Part of the problem lieth in her upbringing, the gravitational pull of familial and societal appeasement, the ideological climate in which she dwelleth, limited formal education, years of severe health struggles, and an ever-shifting regimen of medication that inevitably clouded her cognitive equilibrium. Yet these are but tributaries. The primary reason is that she — and the millions similarly poisoned — were granted permission to transmute grievance into identity, to sacralise resentment, and to dwell perpetually in a theatre of persecution and self-pity. I devoted countless hours unto hearing her sorrows — many, it must be acknowledged, not without justification; the manner in which this disabled woman was treated by health professionals and certain of her kin often enraged me. Yet once aggrieved, she possessed an inexhaustible capacity to rehearse and elaborate those injuries at prodigious length. Trust me on that.

She cleaveth to Trumpism with a fervour nigh unto self-deification, insisting upon its righteousness, even its sanctity. What I behold is not merely a political allegiance but a corrosive moral inversion — an ideology that hath disfigured public discourse, estranged friends, families, and lovers, and debased the civic spirit. Such darkness, however entrenched, cannot endure indefinitely; history is unsparing with movements that mistake grievance for virtue and cruelty for strength.

I do not claim to have been a perfect angel in this matter; I did make grievous mistakes, though not nearly so grievous as she would have one believe (she is given to hyperbole in all matters). Nonetheless, damn Donald Trump and every person who hath propped this criminal paedophile up for ten years. Damn you to the pits of Hades. Thou art a destroyer of the lowest order, and our country is unlikely to survive thy treachery. The woman I loved for many years, who once loved me more than any other human being ever hath, is practically unrecognisable. I shall neither forget nor forgive this. Not at the barrel of a gun shall I ever give my assent to this nation-killing madness, not at any price.

—Arthur Newhook (pen name), 13 February 2025.

Copyright 2026, Arthur Newhook.

Thursday, January 1, 2026

A republic without moderation


The GOP hath curdled into a death cult; the Democratic Party, for the sake of the nation itself, cannot afford to permit its own zealots, cranks, and ideological exhibitionists to seize yet greater influence. Yet that is precisely the course upon which we now hasten. The great middle ground of American political life hath all but evaporated: most citizens no longer dwell in ‘the centre’, but have migrated to their respective fringes, and nothing salutary hath issued from this polar flight. On the contrary, it hath begotten a crisis of such magnitude that a full civil war appears inevitable.

Those who decline to ‘pick a side’, desiring only to live unmolested by the madness engulfing them, shall be the first to be devoured. For my part, I want none of this. I have grown beyond weary of most everyone and everything in this diseased society, and I want nothing to do with collectivism in any of its varieties, whether left or right. 

We now stand in a condition akin to that of Weimar Germany: a rabble of Marxists and Nazis—though God forbid one should dare to name them as such—monopolising all the oxygen, rendering common sense and basic decency obsolete. This Mamdani fellow is bad, bad news.

Copyright 2026, Arthur Newhook.

Saturday, December 20, 2025

Really f**king typical of all you people: #Murica lost its collective bearings over Biden, sits back and does nothing as Trump loses whatever bearings he had left


There is something fundamentally wrong with a populace that, on the one hand, dissolved into a national tantrum in 2024 because the sitting president, a man whose principal defect was the inexorable march of age, appeared momentarily forgetful during a single debate; yet, on the other hand, by late 2025 greets with a shrug the daily unravelling of their self-anointed orange god-king, a visibly deteriorating elder whose lucidity flickers like a faulty bulb.

White, working-class America, by and large (obviously there are plenty of exceptions, just not enough), does not care about competence, mental sharpness, or even basic suitability for office; what they crave and revere is the licence to be as malicious as their hearts incline, unburdened by shame or civic duty. Until 2016, I would have dutifully dismissed the idea as so fantastical and childish that it could not possibly be that simple—but it actually is.

Looking back, so much of the appalling behaviour of so many random people I have been unfortunate enough to know over the years, and the vile ways I myself acted in trying to placate these swine, all makes sense—and yet I am no less staggered. For a bloody decade now, even during the blessed four years when Trump was in exile and a grown man held the helm (a thankless burden, as events made plain), I remain aghast—in a state of perpetual disgust—that so many of you are as wretched, as spiteful, as morally decayed as ever I feared. Nay—far worse.

This nightmare abateth not; it is metastasising. Trump’s devotees will kill—eagerly kill—to enthrone him as dictator-for-life, and nothing in the present climate suggests they will fail. When a nation’s institutions tremble before the phantom of a white, working-class uprising, justice becometh a theatre of cowardice. Were it otherwise, Donald Trump would already be serving a life sentence, accompanied by the entire cohort of witless acolytes who stormed the Capitol on 6 January 2021. And, frankly, by many of those who have enabled, defended, financed, and propagandised this treasonous movement.

Let us not mince words: this sedition endures because the most heavily armed demographic in the country hath anointed Trump as their messiah and awaits only the signal to unleash wholesale bloodshed. Their hatred of the rest of America is so bottomless that what we have thus far witnessed is but the faintest overture.

The Trump regime will order the arrest of Joe Biden, and other high-profile figures deemed as political adversaries, within the coming year. And I expect the public response to be one of mute paralysis—and vigorous approval in many quarters. I likewise anticipate that many of our friends, colleagues, and family members shall begin to vanish, spirited away into the machinery of autocracy… and few will dare speak of it, publicly or privately. Yet through all this darkness, Americans will continue to thunderously proclaim themselves the ‘Land of the Free, Home of the Brave’.

Copyright 2025, Arthur Newhook.

Friday, December 19, 2025

Strip both names from it, for neither merits the honour: a reflection upon the ‘Trump–Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts’

Seen from across the Potomac in the waning light, the Kennedy Center—newly rechristened the Trump-Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts—rises as a monumental, marble-clad prism against a washed, peach-grey sky. Its long, rectilinear massing and regimented vertical window bays evoke a kind of austere civic grandeur, softened only by the faint roseate glow catching the upper cornice. The still water in the foreground mirrors the building’s pallid faΓ§ades in fractured ripples, lending the scene a subdued, almost ceremonial calm. Sparse winter trees and a thin procession of cars at the base of the structure underscore its scale, while the distant Georgetown shoreline hints at the city beyond. The image conveys both the architectural severity of the late-modernist landmark and the moment of its politically charged rebranding.
Hulton Archive/Getty Images

{WP 19 December} ‘Kennedy Center adds Trump’s name to building, despite legal concerns’

The Trump–Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts: I confess I indulged in no small measure of sentimental reverence for the Kennedy dynasty over many years, but it is time—well past time, in truth—for such nostalgia to be laid to rest. Howsoever towering John F. Kennedy may appear when set beside the present holder of the office—and I do freely acknowledge his true heroism in war—we must at last reckon with the full measure of the man: he was corrupt; his fumbling hand brought the United States perilously close to the brink of a third world war (albeit he was not the architect of that crisis); and he behaved appallingly toward Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy, toward Marilyn Monroe, and toward Heaven knoweth how many other women.

The dynasty’s moral deficiencies did not begin nor end with him. Joseph Kennedy, the family patriarch, held an admiration for Hitler. Ted Kennedy, lionised by many, bore responsibility for a woman’s death. And today we behold Robert F. Kennedy Jr., dragging American public health discourse back unto the intellectual standard of the colonial age—an erstwhile advanced medical system now obliged to genuflect before a man whose understanding is, at best, mediΓ¦val.

For generations there hath existed an almost tribal fealty toward the Kennedys within the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, most especially among the predominantly Irish Catholic working class. Yet these have never been my people. As a nominal Protestant of largely English and German descent, I understood from childhood—keenly and unforgettably—that I did not belong, nor was I welcome, within my overwhelmingly Catholic community situated scarcely ten miles north of Boston. (Think somewhere in the vicinity of Spot Pond). It was no phantom of my imagination; I was told so in the plainest, most wounding terms on countless occasions—most vehemently by the Irish kids, and, to a lesser but still palpable degree, by the Italian ones. Why, then, have I spent so many years idealising the Kennedys, a clan whose mythology I was never invited to share? Only Jacqueline ever embodied genuine grace or dignity.

So let us say it plainly: enough of the Kennedys, and curse the cult built around them. And as for Trump—his name, and that of his brood, deserveth no sanctified place in the public square. Strip both names from the faΓ§ade. We are not the Soviet Union, and no civilised republic ought to plaster the monuments of its cultural life with the surnames of dubious dynasties.

—Arthur Newhook (pen name), somewhere in the vicinity of the Middlesex Fells and severely pissed-off, 19 December 2025.

Copyright 2025, Arthur Newhook.

The DOJ hath released a tranche of the Epstein files, though (predictably) ‘significant portions’ remain obscured beneath thick bars of redaction

A young woman in a red, wind-tossed summer dress strides through a rain-soaked street, clutching a stack of heavily redacted documents as though they were both burden and shield. Scattered pages lie sodden at her feet, their blacked-out lines glistening under the lamplight. Behind her looms a monumental faΓ§ade bearing the inscription Department of Justice, now defaced with the graffiti-like declaration FAKE NEWS! and an ominous upward-shooting graph. The American flag hangs limply at her side, while shadowed figures churn through the mist like a restless, half-glimpsed crowd. The painting’s chiaroscuro heightens the atmosphere of civic decay and hunted resolve, casting the woman as an emblem of fragile truth navigating a landscape where institutions and narratives have curdled into spectacle.
image generated via ChatGPT

{The Guardian 19 December} ‘US justice department releases heavily redacted cache of Jeffrey Epstein files’

And against this darkling backdrop, the Trump regime continues its brazen campaign of gaslighting the American public: assuring citizens that prices have fallen when every household ledger says otherwise; indulging in puerile vandalism of official presidential plaques within the White House gallery; and conducting itself with a vindictive frivolity that a majority of Americans either greet with indifference or, worse, applaud as tokens of strength and leadership.

Given such moral torpor, why wouldn’t Trump and his inner coterie presume they can obfuscate even the gravest allegations—those touching upon the exploitation of children? And why wouldn’t vast swathes of the populace respond with a bored ‘eh’, or an enraged cry of ‘fake news’, as though this Pavlovian refrain were a sufficient answer to every horror?

The relative few who persist in clinging to reason and decency are now shouted down with ever-greater fury, perpetually accused of suffering from the fantastical malady dubbed ‘Trump Derangement Syndrome’. The truth is far simpler and far darker: most of America has no appetite whatsoever for resisting Donald J. Trump or the grotesquely contorted creature the ruling Republican Party hath become. Much like the common Germans who, though not always votaries of the creed, nevertheless shrank from opposing the Nazi dictatorship, so do today’s Americans avert their gaze, either desiring only to be left untroubled or to take this golden opportunity to gleefully hurt—even kill—other human beings.

Thus standeth a nation of some 330 million souls, too cowed, too exhausted, and/or too compromised to confront the appalling likelihood that their president may be implicated in crimes of the most abhorrent nature. It is, in every sense of the word, pathetic. And, evil.

Copyright 2025, Arthur Newhook.

Tuesday, December 16, 2025

No more pretences: the majority of the American people either rejoice or shrug their shoulders as the POTUS justifies murder of anyone opposed to him


Imagine but for a moment, if Barack Obama had so much as hinted—let alone declared outright—that a notable conservative or Republican figure had been murdered because his or her deranged slayer had been driven to distraction by the victim’s anti-Obama rhetoric, irrespective of the actual motives or tragic circumstances involved. Imagine, further, one’s disbelief had greater than half the American public responded with a gleeful ‘amen’, or with a shrug of chilly indifference, whilst those who were justly outraged were mocked, dismissed, and threatened with violence. Even a decade ago, in what now feels a more sober age, such a spectacle would have been unthinkable: that an American president would exploit another’s private grief so nakedly in order to menace the roughly forty per cent of the population who oppose him.

We all know precisely what would have followed had this been Obama—or Biden, or Clinton, or even George W. Bush, who long ago fell from favour with the very voters who once rallied behind him in the aftermath of 9/11. But most of all, had it been the black guy. The same #MAGA partisans who now rush to defend Donald Trump’s grotesque exploitation of the deaths of Rob and Michelle Reiner—using their passings as a blunt cudgel to chill political dissent—would be marching through the streets with torches and pitchforks, bellowing (rightly, in that hypothetical) of tyranny and persecution. They know it; we know it; the hypocrisy is so brazen it scarcely troubles itself to counterfeit disguise.

Nay, now it doth not hide at all. Beginning in earnest with the January 6 insurrection, accelerating through the 2024 presidential election and the rise of the ‘manosphere’ that presently poisoneth the hearts and minds of young men at scale, and culminating in Trump’s return to office, #MAGA hath cast off any remaining pretences. What remains is an unambiguous supremacist movement: racial, gendered, and theocratic in equal measure. Roughly sixty per cent of the population is being mobilised—a fair number actively, but more commonly by enforcing passivity and apathy—against the approximate forty per cent of us who resist this nation-killing and soul-killing frenzy. I should like to claim some residue of optimism, yet truthfully I cannot summon the least glimmer of it.

We inhabit a profoundly dark chapter of national life when a majority of the public either tolerates or actively revels in a president willing to rationalise the killing of individuals on account of their political persuasions (or, more to the point, that they hurt his little feelings). We are no longer poised at the brink of the abyss; we have passed within its gate. Trump and his coterie manipulate the American populace with the effortless virtuosity of a master fiddler, and mass bloodshed—spontaneous and orchestrated—is not hypothetical, but imminent.

Most disquieting of all is the truth that remains largely unspoken—though I shall articulate it plainly: many of you reading this are not dreading what comes next. NO… you eagerly await it! For forty-eight humiliating years upon this benighted planet I have sensed, however dimly, that most of you are, at your core, rotten and malign; yet I lacked the vocabulary, the conceptual framework, to name the malignancy. Now I can. And I know, with no small measure of grim consolation, that many others have come to the same conclusion regarding people in general… yet I am entirely alone in my recognition and pain.

Copyright 2025, Arthur Newhook.