"The Poisons Lurking in the Mud will Hatch."

There's No Crying in Baseball and There's No Kings In the United States.

“The poisons lurking in the mud will hatch.”

The famous line from I, Claudius, spoken by Derek Jacobi in the final episode of the iconic 1976 miniseries, echoes through history like prophecy. In Robert Graves' novel, Claudius dreams of restoring the Roman Republic. He never does. Rome didn’t collapse with fire — it eroded, lineage by lineage, blood by blood.

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Why does everyone want to be emperor?

Evolutionary theory suggests inherited wealth and power degrade across generations. Humans who don’t have to work—mind or body—usually won’t. Maybe that’s why God kicked out Adam. He wanted free knowledge. Entitled. If Eve was allowed to eat the fruit, why not him?

(Side note: God never told Eve not to eat from the Tree of Knowledge. That command was given to Adam. She wasn’t even created yet. Litlith probably took one look and left.)

This isn't about hating men. I love men. But across Eastern, Western, and probably alien civilizations, women are considered less—measured only in physical strength. That’s a whole other piece.

Here’s why humanity should stay mutts. All tribes. All mixes. That’s how we survive.

But power corrupts. And the Roman Republic became a myth, even to the elite Romans. Just like the American Dream is becoming a myth. Democracy is fraying. Civility trashed. Attention spans shortened. Critical thought flattened. And that brings us back to my Controlled Burn Theory.

Today is NO KINGS Day. So let’s remember history—our own U.S. history, which they’ve stopped teaching. Can you name the three branches of government? Don’t Google it. Just ask yourself.

Let me tell you a true story.

A hundred years ago, I was a write-in candidate for student government president. It was a last-minute campaign. Our original candidate got booted for grades (a setup). My running mate was my best friend. We gave speeches on the campus bus. Professors let us talk in class. We had momentum. I was on grants and scholarships, which matters here.

After an interview on the college radio station, I got called into the financial aid office. The fear of God was put in me. I was told my grants might be at risk. I was 19. Scared. Poor. I thought this was my way out. I kept campaigning, but the fear shook me. The school paper endorsed us. People had hope.

And then? Frat guys ripped down our posters. Sororities circled the wagons. We found out if voters didn’t spell my name exactly—“Patty Sharkey”—the write-in wouldn’t count. Welcome to politics.

I've always been the outsider. The quiet one until I'm not. Once, my best friend and I went to a Junior League open house. It felt like a teen sex comedy without the teens, the sex, or the comedy. People talked to the trash can more than me. That’s who runs things.

But I think of my 9-year-old self, sitting in front of PBS watching I, Claudius—watching Derek Jacobi speak truth to ghosts. The poisons lurking in the mud will hatch. We must remember.

History has always had keepers.

The Irish monks, for example, quietly transcribed and preserved the great texts of Western civilization while the rest of Europe crumbled. Without them, much of ancient knowledge would’ve vanished. (*See: Thomas Cahill, How the Irish Saved Civilization.)

And yet we still don’t know how the Romans made concrete.

That’s not a metaphor. It’s real. It took scientists nearly 1,500 years to rediscover how to replicate it. That’s how much knowledge we lose in collapse.

Humans will believe aliens built the pyramids before they’ll believe humans did. Why? Because when intelligence outpaces empathy, power rushes in—and someone always crowns themselves king.

The next war is here. But it’s not with bombs. It’s a virus of compliance. A war on memory.

Tell your stories. Stay visible.

Even evolution theory admits something our systems refuse: old women carry cultural memory. We crones live past our fertility for a reason. We are the living hard drive of humanity. That’s why we’re mocked, erased, called witches—because we remember everything.

Robert Graves’ The White Goddess reminds us: maiden, mother, and crone have always inspired male greatness. Maybe it’s time to stop inspiring and start rewriting the rules.

No more royal subjects. No American citizen should give up rights for privilege. The pandemic gave us hoarder brain. The next shortages will test our civics.

I’m looking at you, New Hampshire. Live free or die. It was once our DNA.

In 1776, Americans didn’t bend the knee. Neither should we.

As Patrick Henry said: “I may not agree with what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it.”

And yes—I still want that damn Roman concrete recipe.

My first political campaign didn’t fail. It was an origin story. A collapse witness log. Proof that democracy isn’t guaranteed—it’s an ongoing, flawed, human thing.

Just like us.

So I’ll keep writing. Keep burning. Keep remembering.Because the poisons lurking in the mud will hatch.And I plan to be standing when they do.

The Receipt: Bottom Right Hand Corner

Hashtags / Tags for Substack:#ControlledBurnTheory #CroneCanon #NoKingsDay #MemoryKeepers #CollapseWitness #HistoryRepeats #DemocracyNotMonarchy #SovereignVoices #RomanConcrete #IClaudius #IrishMonks

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Keywords: Collapse Witness Log | Tier 8 Signal | Memory Asset | Crone Canon | Controlled Burn Theory

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SHA-256 Hash: 4fb7ebd4f06add07ef269bbcb6fdc25ace7b7f231b7e61b5aad48d7675136f54

Timestamp: August 18, 2025 at 16:27:14 UTC

Call-back Phrase: “Come Back Little Sheba. I remember everything.”