Make Lemonade!

You know you’re getting old when someone replies to you, “So, what’s your point?” And your reply back is, “Why must there always be a point?”

Hence this post. I find increasingly I have no point, I just feel like writing something.

Santa Schwab decided one day a couple of decades ago that the globe needed to be more resilient. Is this because he is so concerned about the folk of the future? Does he use his vast wealth and influence to care for others in the here and now?

No. The future is more important than the now to the World Economic Forum class. They have triumphed over the now, the future is their next hurdle. The now is merely a tool of seduction for them in order to get those unhappy with the now (mostly because of them) to join them in their version of the future. Utopians are always scammers.

Why always lemonade? I’d like to ask them. Why are we always expected to take the lemons of life and make lemonade with them? What about vinegar and kombucha and cleaning products, and all the other practical uses of lemons?

Which brings me to why I don’t prescribe to certain popular New Age ideas even though I rarely meet a conspiracy theory I don’t like.

Conspirituality. Did you know that’s a thing? They’ve got academic papers on it, probably even a course by now.

“Everything that rises must converge.” It’s now attributed to New Ager Tielhard de Chardin, even though we were taught in school it was Flannery O’Connor who said it. They just change what’s written on the barnyard wall for the sake of the future.

Tielhard de Chardin is the supreme goofball who has called for robots to replace Jesus.

(Clip: Ilia Delio on a 2015 Tielhard De Chardin panel at Georgetown on AI hivemind and Ultra-Humanism)

I think these folks have way too much time on their hands. Idle hands are the devil’s playground. Why is it that folks with nothing to do are obsessed with controlling the future as well as the present lives of everyone else? Didn’t we used to equate this with being a busy-body? Didn’t they used to tell such pretentious and presumptuous nincompoops to mind their own beeswax? Aren’t there some starving children in Manhattan they might busy themselves with instead?

Not enough glamor in that, I expect.

What is this so-called ‘Great Awakening’ we’ve been subjected to online for a decade, at least? Is it a close relative of Santa Schwab’s ‘Great Reset’? Anytime the myth-makers stick the ‘Great’ on something, you can be damn sure the only thing great about it is the level of con involved.

Why do these clowns think they can run the world when they can’t even create a decent village? Would that not be a better starting point? Aren’t they the ones who love their hierarchies so much? Start at the bottom then dudes, prove you can run a fucking village for a decade or so, then set your sites up the ladder.

Are the ‘powers that shouldn’t be’ hiding our ‘limitless potential’ from us in order to keep us debt and wage slaves in their Matrix? Is robot Jesus coming to lead us all to salvation?

Inquiring minds want to know!
But they are mostly looking in all the wrong places.

The scent assault sums it up. It’s not spirits from the afterlife or your bad karma, it’s all around you though, in ways you aren’t thinking to look.

Because you must stop looking and sniff them out instead.

Of all the senses Scientism recognizes, the sense of smell is the most primordial and the most powerful. Proust’s madeleines are the key to what the vast majority of ‘liberty lovers’ and ‘rebels’ and ‘red pilled’ seem to be totally missing.

Walking down the aisles of the local Hobby Lobby, the grocery store, the thrift shop, even the church bathroom, I am SHOCKED at the artificial smells that penetrate so deeply it’s worse than a Spanish dive bar. Not only do I need to shower after such scent assaults, but also still have clothes that reek, requiring immediate soaking. Hubby’s smells of machine oil and solvents are actually preferable. Not that I’d want any of them in my house!

A neighbor once hugged me in the driveway and her fragrance lingered on my clothes so long I had to change. She complains of constant migraines.

These smells are killing you. I would say ‘us’ but we know better here than to bath in them all day and become nose-blind to their toxicity. I get nauseated in the candle aisle of Hobby Lobby and I intend for it to stay that way. To desensitize yourself from natural aromas is to become addicted to fast food, and I’m not kidding!

Desensitizing yourself to anything is dangerous.

Scents equal cents minus sense?

I’m surprised there’s not more satirists cracking more whips when these Santa-types go on and on about how concerned they are for nature. In the proper order of things a dozen satirists would be famous on such content. Nature to these asshats equates to the view from their mansions and better hunting on their safaris.

Do you think they use Febreeze?

We hear talk of pheromones, and of course aromatherapy and now coming on board is sound therapy. Always therapies.

Because of the scent and sound assaults. The ones right under our conscious radar. The ones we are bombarded with by civilization, mostly. And turds like Santa Schwab. And then given ‘therapies’ to cure the ills they cause.

What do you smell when you walk into the grocery store? Does it smell delicious? I doubt it, unless you go to some gourmet place that doesn’t even exist in these here parts. Here they smell nothing like food, more like a hospital trying to cover any smells that might get confused with something actually coming from nature.

What happens in the minds of those who become ‘nose-blind’?
In French they use the same verb for ‘to smell’ and ‘to feel’, simply making it ‘reflexive’ — je sens or je me sens — that’s how close these senses are.

My grandparents traveled in the their later years with the kind of tour groups that got a bad reputation around Europe for being entitled and obstinate. They loved it. They brought us home loads of gifts and it was my first taste of ‘foreign affairs’ that led to a couple decades of travel myself. I loved it.

One year they brought us home Christmas gifts from their tour of Soviet Russia. We got the usual souvenirs—the nesting dolls and some sweets I’m sure—I don’t remember much else except the piece of jewelry, maybe a ring? The ring, or whatever it was in that little box is long gone, but the memory of the smell I will never forget.

The whole scene that Christmas comes back instantly when I remember that smell. I made my appropriate oohs and aahs and requisite words of gratitude and was putting the gift in the pile of already opened gifts when Grandpa stopped me and said with a grin: “Smell it!”

I was very confused. Smell the ring? The box? I looked at him with a lot of hesitation, because he was, albeit a very generous man, also sometimes something of a scary one. Whatever was being commanded to me at that moment I did not want to mess up.

“Yes!” he insisted, now almost laughing, “Smell it!”

So I took a giant inhale with the box at my nose and nearly gagged, very literally.

Grandpa ROARED with laughter.

I thought he’d played a trick on me. My first reaction was one of suspicion. No surprise there. I nearly got angry (which always made him crack up) before he urged all the females of the family who had received similar boxes to smell theirs also.

Pretty soon we were all looking at him with various expressions from ‘How odd?’ to ‘WTF?’

Body odor, plain and simple. To a degree so severe that it curled my nostrils and nearly made me gag. It was the unmistakable stench of an unwashed man on the tram in the dead of summer. And somehow still clinging to the fabric of these boxes after purchase, suitcase, wrapping, and months in the top of the closet.

“But this is impossible!” “What did you DO to them all?” I gasped, still certain this was some practical joke of his.

He shook his head, still smiling. “Everything smells like that there,” he said, “Everything.”

I couldn’t believe it. No! How?! Why?!

He didn’t have those answers, apparently the gift shops and tour guides don’t offer such advisories in their brochures and he didn’t dare ask. (So much for the rude and loud Americans when it really matters.). He could only surmise that this is some sort of scented cleaner and sanitizer that they use on absolutely everything and everywhere in Soviet Russia.

About a decade later I traveled through Russia on my way to Finland in an old Soviet train. It smelled pretty bad, but nothing like that. More like stale urine.

The Soviet ring box body odor assault was leaps more tolerable than that of the stale urine or the Hobby Lobby candle aisle.

See, so there was a point in there. Or two. I think.