Fiction – Kensho Homestead

The Story Arc(h)

So many stories not told. They don’t fit the mold.

While the same stories are repeated over and over. The approved stories, with the approved arcs and twists, capturing audiences beyond time and space.

Hero or Villain? Victim or Culprit?

The ordinary stories of ordinary folks are bypassed. Not sexy enough. Not dramatic enough. Too slow-paced. Not Catchy. Or spicy. Or click-baity.

Not nearly sticky enough.

Stories must be sending the right message. Clicking the right boxes in the right moments in the accepted paradigm according to the right models.

Triumph over adversity are ultimately the only stories allowed. Even the stories of failed heroes are spun in such a light, otherwise they are considered ‘dystopian’. And even then we see tragic heroes ‘set free’ by their surrender to the ‘greater force’ or ‘liberated’ by a merciful death.

How the stories are told indicate what the audience will perceive. Here I provide some examples.

These are all still ‘my stories’, just spun to be acceptable, or not. My goal here is to get folks to question WHY certain stories sell. Is it a matter of authentic taste? Of expectation? Of social programming?

Is it the audience who choose, or someone else, perhaps more subtly who chooses for you?

Here are some stories never told, true (ish) stories from my own life. You be the judge/critic/pretend publisher and let me know.

***

While in NOLA, a hurricane. The story that would sell: Young teacher moves to New Orleans for her new position at a prestigious Southern university one week before the most devastating hurricane in its history. She evacuates to a remote part of the Louisiana bayou and learns about Creole and Cajun history and music and cuisine and finally settles in the region of the native Caddo tribe to study Pre-Colombian cultures of the Deep South.

The story that won’t sell: Young teacher moves to New Orleans for her new position at a prestigious Southern university one week before the most devastating hurricane in its history. She evacuates to a remote part of the Louisiana bayou and learns about weather modification and clandestine military operations pertaining to centralized, unelected power structures controlling the U.S. government.

***

While in Galveston, a hurricane. The story that would sell: Couple not long ago evacuated from New Orleans experiences second 100-year hurricane evacuation after just three years. After being forced to split up in order to continue working, they blow through a decade of savings, suffer marital issues and nearly divorce, but are called by God to settle in the remote hills of East Texas to build a homestead.

The story that won’t sell: Couple not long ago evacuated from New Orleans experiences second 100-year hurricane evacuation after just three years. Wife begins seriously researching ‘chemtrails’ and learns about the 70+ years of weather modification that leads her to the ongoing Geoengineering projects—that is the global ‘climate remediation’ experimentation, much of it covert operations of global public-private partnerships with zero accountability or known oversight.

***

While in Elkhart, a tornado. The story that would sell: Couple experiences third weather disaster and nearly loses home and wife talks of ‘meeting death’. She finds God, Jesus, Mohammed, Buddha, Enlightenment and starts a fundamentalist cult which then gets attacked Waco-style by the government and all cultists die in flames.

The story that won’t sell: Couple experiences third weather disaster and nearly loses home and wife talks of ‘meeting death’. She turns to herbalism and organic gardening and a life of quiet reflection about the nature of evil and tyranny and the statist system broken beyond repair and the inadequacies of every group-think solution to this issue, including the anarchy renamed voluntarism and the so-called ‘mystery schools’ and the exhausting rehashing of ‘Prophecy’ and is just generally permanently dissatisfied with all the solutions and proposals she’s ever heard, and she’s heard a fucking ton of them by now.

She discovers a mass effort at brainwashing against the ‘victim’ —some kind of crazy signaling effort of victims to rally other victims, and wonders who does this attitude really serve? So, we ‘victims’ are now considered by the establishment as of a ‘dark triad’ type (witches?) if we don’t spin our circumstances to always be whistling while we work, in whatever chaotic wind they care to bare down on us. Or so it would seem.

“Victim signaling, defined as ‘public and intentional expressions of one’s disadvantages, suffering, oppression, or personal limitations’ is strongly correlated (r = .52) with Dark Triad personality traits”.

The Psychology of Social Status and Class: A Conversation with Jordan Peterson

So, so many stories not told. But don’t worry! We’ve got a new generation now, selling the same story in a whole new way!

Stop complaining! Smile. Be happy now.

Dear Diary

I am so thankful today! Every day I say my gratitude mantras for all that has manifested in my life, all that I’ve been able to co-create with nature, my friends and family, and the Great Organizing Dynamic.

Since today is such a special day and everyone is talking about gratitude I thought I should write the list down so I never forget. How incredibly dull my life would be without all these fantastic challenges to overcome!

I’m so grateful I find so much inspiration in the shitshow we call Normal Life in civilized society. Like . . .

I’m so grateful I have the privilege of helping to pay for, and clean up after, ‘my’ government and their corporate interests. It’s such a pleasure to make apologies to my overseas friends and strangers alike for our warmongering and resource grabs around the world. I like to fortify myself daily by reading the most scathing reports available concerning our behavior and how good we are at pissing everyone off.

I’m particularly grateful I’m not a victim. Victims are so not good company. Also, this makes the perpetrators feel much better and I know they really need that. No one likes to feel guilty or ashamed of their abuses. I’m so pleased when I can spare them that unpleasantness.

I’m happy each day when I see the sky covered in artificial clouds that spread out and cover the sun and then watch how miraculously the weather changes considerably in less than 2 days. Yo-yo weather is every bit as fun as it sounds. It gives me great peace of mind when my joints are aching from the rollercoaster pressure variables that at least I know why it’s happening and that I only have to suffer for 2 or 3 days, until a few weeks later, when the magic clouds come back. I know how important it is for man to engineer the atmosphere and it gives me great pride to suffer on their behalf and to do my part for the greater good.

I’m so blessed by the ample choice I have in allergy and dis-ease management medications and the routine advice given by experts and professionals that is so clear and consistent and helpful. It’s so wonderful to feel so loved and cared for by the government and their successful industry partners.

I’m so thankful for all the folks who see opportunities instead of problems. It is such an exquisite growth opportunity for me personally, because where I see disaster capitalism they see weather futures; where I see exploitation they see the economy reimagined. I agree with them that I must be selfish, immature and playing the victim whenever I can’t see immediately how right they always are.

UN-Backed Banker Alliance Announces “Green” Plan to Transform the Global Financial System

I’m so thankful that with man’s technology we can finally fix everything Mother Nature can’t seem to get right. Ultrahumanism and Planetization sound like the perfect augmentation for the heart and mind. I feel our spiritual goals are so aligned and that really helps with my meditations and gratitude mantras they were so thoughtful to teach me.

The LOVE Conference

Ladies! Welcome! Welcome! We are so thrilled to be here for our 6th Annual Love Conference!!!

We’ve got some great speakers lined up for you today, the brightest stars in the business—Merry Willy, Liza Lotta, Toni Ruburson and our feature speaker—the one and only, Opur Winey.

And of course there’s our Breakdown-2-Breakthrough breakout workshops throughout the day, so let’s get started right away!

You’ll all find slips of paper there in front of you and I want you all to write down your first name and 6 words or phrases you associate with LOVE, plus one of your favorite songs about LOVE. There are no wrong answers, it’s all about YOU and your experience!

You have 10 minutes before my assistant will collect them and I’ll read them for the group.

Ok ladies, well done! So, let’s see what we’ve got here.

Joy’s slip: passion, romance, tenderness, compassion, forgiveness, family.
Oh that’s wonderful, Joy!
And her song is: All You Need Is Love, by the Beatles, of course!

Katy’s slip: hate, betrayal, misery, lies, gaslighting, obsession.
Ok, thank you for that, Katy.
And for her song we have: Back to Black, Amy Winehouse, yes indeed.

Marjorie’s slip: confusion, loss, fatal attraction, pain, shame, manipulation.
Her song choice: Ball and Chain by the legendary Janis Joplin.

Becky’s slip: sex, power, money, fame, sex again, chocolate
Her song choice: True Love by, um, Pink? Hmm, don’t know that one.

Seven hours later . . .

What a fantastic group you’ve been! We’ve all had such a wonderful time and I know you feel exactly how I feel.

Thank you all so much for gathering today with our favorite Love Bombers!

Love truly is the answer to all our modern problems. We are all One in Love. Isn’t it miraculous to know that we can all agree on love! And we can end war, poverty, cancer, drug abuse, you name it, because we truly believe love conquers all!

Now I want you all to go out and spread the word about the power of Love to Save the World!

The Wandering Jew & the Lucky Bamboo

The Wandering Jew & The Lucky Bamboo: A Fictional Conspiracy Theory

Do you understand the plants are made just like that? Compare them to the ones that were like, painstakingly crafted?

If you knew there was a difference, would you wonder who crafted it, and how, or even why?

Did you know the sandwhich, the olive, the vodka, were all crafted? Of course you did.

But did you know also was the potato, the tulip, the rose, even the honeybee?

That I hate going to the dentist is no mystery. But in some States, particularly in the South, it seems, sedation is an option. Now I hate going to the dentist slightly less than before, as in all my way too long functional memory. On the gas, there is some enlightenment, as you’ll see.

Twice now I’ve been to the dentist since the Plandemic, because I have dental issues since childhood, not to mention dental trauma, from the choking fluoride treatment molds that tormented me every six months for a decade. That I found these treatments horrific is considered a mental weakness on my part. That my mom paid for them from her hard-earned wages, and trusted them, breaks my heart to this day.

Now they’ve required me to sign a checklist that I have no symptoms of the Covid during these last two visits where only the gas, and lovely company of kind women, guard my fragile acquiescence .

At these days they’ve also insisted on taking my temperature via a digital thermometer directed precisely at my 3rd eye.

That is, the pineal gland. Little do they know, I’m sure, the conspiracy theories that surround that teeny-tiny gland. Right behind the directed laser pointed right there, to which they are given a number, as if that is the only signal that instrument is designed to relate. And as if they would know any other reason why this instrument is now being more normalized than the obscene body scanners at the airport.

I hate dentists, so much so that my latest dentist is my heroine. She gets what honest dentist-hate is like. She commends my stoicism in the chair, bless her heart. I honor her sacrificial hours and delicate sensitivity which I recognize as akin to artistry. She really is someone worthy of far more than her title. I like her, and I’m not being even remotely sarcastic. I can hardly imagine what it’s like to be a woman like that.

“Feelings are considered to be internal human structure and architecture. But what you imagine and create are far more important—and the creative process radically and naturally changes feelings in a positive way, as a side effect.” Jon Rappaport

On the gas, I reflect, and tears flow, beyond my knowing, how. They are so kind, they see, they don’t define. Are you ok? Yes, I am, right here, right now, I am ok. And I see how flimsy that is this sedated happy feeling in the here and now.

Are you? Are y’all? Is that enough? Is that ok? Do you load yourself with duty and then pray you’ll sleep and have enough still to spend another day?

Would you have enough pity, prana, love, care, energy, to say . . .

Would you really like to know what it was like for me, in the pit, today?

I did not get the impression s/he did. Bypassing is our only call of fame. From the pedestal the pit cannot be understood. There is no degree of compassion that might pacify the pit.

Because you see, in the pit, your compassion is where I most love to shit.

That you preach how I should feel makes it that much more worse
But you praise and anoint yourselves with kudos and more books

It is an annoying block to enlightenment for those who perpetually misunderstand. And are misunderstood.

“If I do not describe the details of our work it is because we were busied with things which lie beyond speech and which therefore elude the spell that words exert. But everyone will remember how his mind has labored in regions which he cannot portray, whether it were in dreams or in deep thought. It seemed as if he were groping for the right road in labyrinths or sought to unravel the figures among the patterns of an optical illusion. And often he awoke wonderfully strengthened. This is where our best work takes place, and so it seemed to us, too, that in our struggle speech was still inadequate, and that we must penetrate into the depths of the dream if we were to withstand the threat against us.”

The cynicism that regards all hero worship as comical is always shadowed by a sense of physical inferiority.” Occulture: The Unseen Forces That Drive Culture Forward by Carl Abrahamsson

At the Ashram

At the entrance was a sign informing new visitors that the guru offered private consultations by appointment. They decided together they should each make one.

Dan and Sue had heard of this ashram from a mutual friend. They agreed to each pay their own way, but to share a room. The agreed also they’d discuss moving in together finally, maybe even getting married.

At his appointment, Dan confessed he was getting cold feet. The guru nodded patiently, emanating compassion. He did not interrupt while Dan recited his list of doubts and grievances.

The guru sat in silence for what seemed to Dan too long a moment. When he finally spoke he looked grim, solemn, Dan had to strain to hear him.

“Mr. Dan, I have met your lady friend. I’m sorry to say that I concur with you, she is not the one for you. Too many problems, you are sure to be unhappy. She is too strong-willed for you, too hot tempered, too much fire. I suspect too much conflict for a good match.”

Before their departure Sue sought out the guru again, taking him aside and handing him a thick envelope. She hugged him warmly, her eyes glowing, and said, “I can’t thank you enough! It’s been positively magical!”

“Not at all,” replied the guru, “it is my great pleasure to serve.”

“We’ve set a date!”

“I’m not surprised,” replied the guru. “I can see he’s a very difficult man, you have your work cut out for you.”

She nodded. He turned to take his leave, saying, “Well played, mum.”

Why Does it Stink Like Grape kOOl-aid in here?

Letter from Grandpa from the beyond, sent through James True.

Dear Readers, thank you for being here. I should say that more often. I’m sorry for all the cream pies to the face, I know it’s not polite, and I really do appreciate you putting up with me, and sometimes even pressing like. I know some of you are real people, not just bots or spies, and I don’t think about that enough. It’s cool that you’re still here with all my weird ravings about conspiracies, and bad poetry (sometimes on purpose, it’s a trick, now you have a secret I’ve been keeping), and just in general not being good enough.

James is right you know. Even if he’s planning to start a cult, he’s still right. Know more. Do better. Wise up! Look who you’re up against. You’re hardly even a fly in their cellar. You’re a like a maggot about to pecked up by a hen. You’re snooping around their closets like a raving idiot. Who wants that, come on now. Of course you’re going to piss them off eventually, so you better back off, or buck the fuck up. (James added that bad word Gramps, I swear it wasn’t me.)

Man up, woman! This is a dojo, whether you like it or not.

https://youtu.be/pVXFmFie1no

Just, Fiction.

I met this Persian man at the laundromat. The first thing I thought was, “Persia is still a country?” Obviously I didn’t say that out loud, it became a mental note to self: “Google Persia.”

Instead I replied, “Oh, nice, what brings you to (redacted)? Big smile. I’m really good at that. Loads of training. I use to have nicer teeth, but I refuse to bleach them now. Have you read that ingredients list? Yes, they work, I know. But I’d rather just stop smiling so damn much.

2nd note to self: “Journal, what the hell is there to be smiling about so much anyway?” Next thought: “I hope I get to talk to him about chemtrails.”

We got to chatting, of course, I can strike up a conversation with just about anyone, even cranky men on the airplane who just want to nap.

Something I said set him off on a tangent, that’s usually how it works.

I can’t be certain what it was exactly, I think it was “spontaneous.” I was telling him how I’d just come back from two conferences in Dallas (I did not tell him of what kind) and my entire purpose at both was to be spontaneous. I had set that intention.

And off he went.

He talked through my entire wash cycle about “Persia,” but mostly about his wife. She hates America, refuses to come when he visits. He didn’t mention why he visits.

I nodded and smiled and eventually rolled my clean wet clothes to the dryers. I was distracted by the thought of it feeling odd throwing mine and Hubby’s skivvies in the dryer while he watched and chatted away.

Then a question blurted out, I could tell from the rise in tone, and I had to redirect my attention quickly in order to catch only: “. . . daughter’s roof replaced?”

“You mean the ‘tornado’?” I made sure to use physical air quotes in the form of my two fingers motioning most emphatically when I said that, I always do. You never know when just that gesture might plant a seed in just the right season with just the right person.

“Yes I do!”

When I turned to face him he had a big smile which made me grimace. I made the full “oh my God, don’t get me started” face, in slow motion, to make sure he caught it.

And then I went on my tirade. About all the downed trees, upturned from the roots, just like that, hardwoods too, plenty of ‘em. And how I was there, alone, and woke up to a disaster zone like something out of a Hollywood movie, with trees and debris strewn across everywhere, inches from every window, an overturned beehive, fences down that just went up, and on and on I went, through the entire dryer cycle. I never even got started on the damned weather modification.

I was folding before I finally took a breath and said, “Oh, sorry, how I do go on!” Sheepish smile, shrug, “Thanks for listening!” 🙂

He looked at me very seriously and said: “Well, it has been my pleasure, dear, I feel quite enlightened by you!”

“You do?”

“Why yes, I do! Here it is. The gods just noticed you, and let you live! Relatively unscathed! You, and my daughter, are among the most blessed women alive! And what do you do with such blessings from gods, you complain to every stranger who listens for six whole months? Right?! You do this, too, right?!”

And then he smiled, so I smiled. And he started to laugh, so I started to laugh, and he continued.

“Thank you! Now I see why my wife won’t come with me to visit in America!”

grey bird in close up photography — Photo by Markus Distelrath on Pexels.com

Misbehavior Is New Word for Abuse

As the lifetime actors in the Hollywood-Politiko class try to reign down their terror on anyone who questions their absolute authority we have on MSM the latest Weinstein’s piggery, or I guess it’s Epstein this week, left to digest during the dinner hour. Yum.

”He should be spanked for his so HUGE Mis-behavior,” says the bleach blond tween posing as a news reporter.

“For sure! Nine spankings, and eleven Hail Mary’s! Right? Get it . . . the code,” says the greased up fat turd next to her . . . wink, wink.

Translation following, for the unhappy few in this asylum who miraculously still possess a set of standards and a moral compass:

Abuse is relative, you know!

You got it! One boy’s abuse is another’s sexual fetish. It’s all good.

It’s really sad more folks don’t understand that. If you pretend it’s not abuse, then you think it’s not abuse, so obviously then it’s really not abuse. It’s all about perception management.

Yes, for sure. They subject themselves to more abuse, because they can’t understand that their abuse was totally relative. Why keep whining about spilled milk? I mean like, you didn’t get your dick chopped off, right? Because, that happens. And that didn’t happen to you, so I really don’t get why you can’t get over it already. Consider yourself lucky.

And besides, you know misbehaving can be fun! I misbehaved in choir once, but it wasn’t really my fault, I mean, she practically ass-ulted me. Really.

I sometimes fantasize I meet these assclowns celebrating some nonsense at a local bar with a small band of their mesmerized fan cult. Two vodka sodas is just enough for me to say the following, without a shadow of remorse, laughing myself to sleep for days.

”So, do the folks around you in your life really put up with your bullshit on a regular basis? I mean, they must right? I’ve been watching you for a year and it’s like one con after another—denial, gaslighting, whitewashing, spinning, selective memory holes. It’s like you’ve learned from a true master. I imagine you must treat everyone this way, right? I mean a person’s professional work bleeds right into their intimate life. Every time I watch you I feel bad for the future man in his old age who’s going to have to look back at the shyte he did to make a living, and he’s going to see bright and clear what a douche he was his entire life. That’s gotta hurt.”

Blank stare from the professional tele-prompt readers.

“And I can imagine how hard it is to keep all those plates of bullshit spinning! No wonder you have migraines and chronic IBS. Sucks to be you.”

”Hey, but let me be a sport, ok, no hard feelings. I’ll buy y’all a round if you give me a bit of advice, it’s about my neighbors.”

They don’t mind being insulted, because they’re locally famous in this these rural parts, so they agree, just another crazy story to share on Instagram.

”So, here’s my problem. My neighbor’s dog keeps killing my chickens. This has been going on for a couple years now and the neighbor refuses to do anything about it, considers this to be my problem, for having chickens.

“Being the solution-oriented person that I am, I’ve got to solve this problem. But, being a dog-lover I hate to shoot the dog, or poison the dog. So, I thought what if I just break the dog’s leg, that way he can’t chase the chickens?”

Wide eyes and astonished looks from the peanut mob.

Greased-up fat turd replies and all nod in unison, “You’ve got to give up your chickens, DU-UH!”

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this: