WOW, this is the most depressing list I’ve ever read. Manufacturing consent and chaos globally—the biggest corporations in the world.
Source – geopolitics.co – “…People ask, where does all the money come from to promote and hold nationwide protests that promote the destruction of America? Look no further than Technocrats in corporate America. This list does not include the hundreds of millions from foundations and NGOs” $564 Million: The Corporate Technocrats Who Finance Social Justice […]
Like all old couples we’ve adopted and ameliorated plenty of bad jokes and even worse puns Amusement becomes more challenging as one ages
Where once you could or might like to party all night
eventually to party for an hour seems more in sight
And so, De-Nile is not just a river in China, or Idaho, or Guadalajara And, never let the truth get in the way of a good story so I hurt my hip, my toe, my heart, by flyingand not by showing off Let’s just agree to disagree
That history, from wherever it comes
for whatever we pretend it doesn’t matter still we know it does
we cling to old phrases like, from where do your kinfolk come
we know we’ve decided collectively, it matters, so why do we continue to abandon our land to them, why do we bow our minds and sully our soils, to
That lord has more in common with their lord as I have more in common with their peasant master and slave,
I’ve been, native and queen, I’ve been, conquerer, conquered and conquering, I’ve been through all these things and seen life terrorizes all on her own no need for extemporaneously expressed self-righteous assigning But, let’s carry on, nonetheless, in this copious never ending river of
Your eye roll, and your compassion for these sociopathic tyrants, is your acceptance. It’s why and how they are still in power decade after decade, investigation after investigation, trails even, they’re still here. Compassion with criminals is commiseration. Drinking from the poisoned well does not make you immune. No germ theory calls these bitches the germs.
And next I’m going after the sacred cow called Shirley Temple Black.
“But what happens if we never reclaim ourselves from this imprint? What happens when the feelings that surface when we reconsider allegiance to those big, looming authorities that we imagine could crush us if we don’t comply? This is the pattern of intergenerational trauma we see running through the lineage of humanity now, where unexamined trauma leads to a fugue state of dissociation from self and intuition in service of a preserved trust and loyalty to parentified authorities.”
Source – kellybroganmd.com – “…Propaganda can be delivered as a mass public relations campaign, hidden in plain sight to manufacture consent. At this point, every single consensus narrative — on climate change, 9/11, the suffragette movement, war, HIV/AIDS, vaccination, and yes, today’s pandemic — is a smokescreen for deeper agendas that we have been strategically […]
Just another loungey Sunday on the wee homestead and sharing some of the love with y’all!
The dogs are off for a swim in the pond, their favorite time of day, right after breakfast and dinner. The pastured pigs come up to greet the group, hoping we brought treats, no doubt. They are looking much more slender now that they are only foraging.
Papi’s back on track, thank heavens! After a big scare, where we were planning for his death, a great resurrection now follows. We took him back to the vet, they replenished him with fluids by IV, and coaxed out a football-sized hardened stool. I know this issue was caused by the prescribed meds, so this time when he got home with a new set of pills, we threw them all in the trash.
He’s again his old sassy self and it really does seem like a miracle after how despondent he was—wouldn’t eat or drink, was vomiting and not pooping, would hardly move, wouldn’t even whine or bark, though he’s normally very expressive—we really thought he was checking out for good. He’s back and still trying to lead the pack.
The garden is growing great, the green beans and melons are looking particularly impressive this year (so far that is, never count your melons before they hatch). I’ve just harvested our first cucumbers, with tomatoes soon to follow. The bees sound as pleased as me!
Speaking of bees, I can now confirm with a fair degree of confidence that my high-risk hive split last month was successful. What made it high-risk, in conventional beekeeping protocol, was that there was no queen, I didn’t re-queen at all, rather I intended that the small split-off colony should raise their own queen themselves. There was not even queen cells present in the brood I transferred, only capped brood and larvae.
My beekeeping goal is replicating genetics that suit our needs and desires here on the wee homestead: semi-feral colonies whose first purpose is pollination, second purpose is sustainability and study, third purpose those glorious products—honey, wax, propolis, pollen, etc.
For this goal I choose to split from our “ninja” hive, but don’t let their nickname fool you. They are not ‘mean’ like the nickname might suggest, and two other hives here are FAR meaner.
Rather, they are natural warriors. Maybe this is because during the ‘tornado’ last spring their home was turned upside down. Or maybe because I experimented on them with a screen bottom board, which meant they had to fend off attackers constantly from multiple fronts all summer, the warm winter and early spring. Or maybe because they are right next to our house, where there is constant traffic from critters, mowers and us.
All I know is, this team is tight, because they’re so busy with all their other tasks, they leave me in relative peace in order to meddle in their ranks.
And speaking of queen bees, at least in the canine kingdom, Buttercup is exercising her own maternal instincts, on our new chicks. It seems she doesn’t trust her brother, Bubba.
Whereas once upon a time Buttercup crawled in submission from 20 paces, then rolled over immediately once within sniff-range of current Queen Tori, I expect there will soon be an active rivalry.
I wonder when someone will finally come to rival this old queen? Someone once asked me when we first moved rural, “Why do you need so much land?”
You sided with the abuser like a fucking cliché.You told your son he shouldn’t displease his mother when he showed you the bite marks and bruises.You chugged Nyquil while your husband raped your daughters and pretended to faint whenever they tried to tell you.You invited the priest for dinner every Thursday and called your son…
He now knows I’m hunting him, no doubt.I’ve shot twice and missed. I’ve never been a good shot.Now, he knows that.He strategically positions himself like a bull’s eye in the small window of wires just above the transformer.His predecessor did that too.What are the odds?
His predecessor hit the grass thanks to Handy Hubby, a far better shot than I. It’s not like we make a sport out of shooting birds. We love the birds! But please, don’t let their small stature, or innocent and cute demeanor cloud the fact that they are really loud, opportunistic, clever and occasionally infuriating.
Did you know mockingbirds will go on all night long?So, when they’re right above the bedroom window, I’m sure you can imagine how exceptionally annoying it is.That is, if you’ve ever heard the mockingbirds go on and on all night long.They must be the most annoying-sounding birds ever, right after guinea hens.It would take a real saint to suffer through it incessantly, I’m sure.
The mockingbirds are, as James True has made me deeply consider, gifts of Ba’al.They force me to get up from my cushions, to feel the shame in my lack of skill, to suffer their shrill monotony, to become a better shot.
They make me understand that irritation is a very powerful motivator for me. And my own limited threshold for verbal abuse, and my own cunning, and sensitivity, and impatience, and so on. For better, but moreover, worse.
I got lucky this time, don’t know why, seem to be riding that wave lately, at last.I heard him out, while weeding in the garden.He went on and on, right over my head.I was so tempted to get the gun.But I thought, let me try my patience today.A little self-test.I didn’t notice he’d gone until a day or two afterward, remarking on the silence suddenly, while weeding once again in the garden.
How calm and quiet, what’s changed?
Low and behold, the mockingbird was gone, and no replacement has yet appeared.But, the same morning I realized this, which was yesterday, I had to rush our old dog Papi to the vet, half his tongue is paralyzed, well into his throat and he can’t eat, is drooling badly, has a fever, and they’re keeping him for the weekend under sedation.
He’s old and sometimes as annoying as the mockingbirds.He’s always been our ‘problem child’. It’s been fairly constant for his now 12 years—in and out of the vet for snake bites and ear issues and inexplicable poisonings. He’s fond of disappearing for days, one time he came home clearly overdosed on mushrooms. He drives me into a regular frenzy by, in general, being a real hooligan.I miss him already, a lot.
Not that these random instances might be related or anything, just noting the timing, just in case.
Get well quick old buddy, your annoying antics are missed already.
She gave us a million dollars, surely we can grant her this one thing?Keep it alive, that’s all she asked.
Her mother, she says, was a saint.This jade came through her, and through her mother, and her mother’s mother.Jade is a special sort of plant, kind of like a Wandering Jew in that way, give it what it wants and it’s immediately invasive, take it out of its narrow comfort zone and it withers dramatically before dying.Your negligence would be in the spotlight for months while you went on not noticing, or, not caring.
She was a saint, it is said.She could knit through wails for twenty minutes before noticing a thing.Once trance broken, “Oh, Oscar stop already” muffled huff, return to needles.Oscar scoffs, and stops.
Saint is code word for Expert of Dissociation.Give the lady another medal. She could read or knit or drown in TV while the seas parted around her, and remain oblivious.She could minimize and whitewash every ‘love bite’ and ‘love pinch’ and smile, or shrug, or eye-roll her way through a dozen abusive slurs.That’s what it means to be a saint.
Long-suffering Jades, pass it on, don’t forget, don’t neglect, and always, pass those seeds on.