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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.”

The Russians And The Chinese Are Your Enemy — Caitlin Johnstone

Best poem of the year, thank you friend of art.

The Russians and the Chinese are your enemy. Not the oligarchic class in your own country that has been exploiting, propagandizing, deceiving, oppressing and robbing you every moment of your life since you were born. The Russians and the Chinese.The Russians and the Chinese are your enemy. Not the people who have been engineering and…

via The Russians And The Chinese Are Your Enemy — Caitlin Johnstone

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.

 

Blanket of Approval

Upon leaving that One Season World
There’s a spell that’s cast

and when that storm it came at
A different hour

This time, I did not cower
Instead, it brought me power

The dogs moved to
nestle at my breast
when night was cast that strange day

Because, I guess, they know, no, other way

Oh! They cheered, She’s got it Down, that Terrain!
and She’ll flog your ass
half-passed insane

You think that’s funny!
Me, too, my friend,
Please, chump, come, again
and again.

A Commuter’s Lament

Have you ever known the peace of a country dawn?
Or heard the melody of nature’s song?
Or felt the stars on a midnight’s meadow?

I say you have not!

For if so, you would not make me choose
The cement of your cities
Over the flowers in my fields
Or the roar of your traffic
Over the buzz in my gardens
Or the prison of your office
Over the breeze in my heart
Or the intransigence of your schools
Over the wisdom of my soul

Yet if I trust it’s only in your ignorance
Then I never confront your evil

Coronavirus Crisis Reopens 150-Year-Old Controversy – LewRockwell — MCViewPoint

Germ theory, or terrain theory?  Bet you never heard of one of these.

“What’s not widely known is that other French scientists working in the same field in that era held somewhat different beliefs, known as the “terrain theory”. They believed that the most important factor that determines whether or not a person becomes ill is not the presence of a germ, but rather the preparedness of the body’s internal environment (the “soil” or terrain) to repel or destroy the germ.”

“Epidemiologists busily debate the pros and cons of lockdowns and masks in controlling the spread of the virus, but I have yet to see a single report of anyone who has thought to compare the serum vitamin D levels of those who succumbed, versus those who recovered, versus those who have never become infected. This […]

via Coronavirus Crisis Reopens 150-Year-Old Controversy – LewRockwell — MCViewPoint

4.20.20

Dear Baby Jesus,
may the Mighty Lords hear that
I do not consent!
My ancestors and brethren,
I do Concur, if had so consented,
did so Only under great Duress.

I don’t need chants or songs or vigilance to say simply
I do not consent!

I don’t need stomps or guns or fear of pestilence

Simply, truly, I do not consent!

Mark it, now, this day of your fake calendar event

To whatever twisted laws you’re still employing, truly

Fuck Off!

Period. End your story!

Drop those masks, and bow Before Me

For Nevermore will I implore thee
or any of your
Trauma masks
forever tranced
Before Me
NEVER

Technotron

Devils don’t want your invitation
Invite them in, with a sly grin

Cross this threshold, speak
With a nod, and a wink
Then watch them slink

Like bullies faced
No robbers chased

Just malingering fellows
Soon disgraced

They ride bicycles and tricycles
And hide upstage
like big, fat fools

Those left shoe ad-vices
Dices of lost reveries
knights and damsels
Still missing thee

Like troubadours sailing
Spin doctors full of bull
Aloft of air and ritual

When the parachute fails
The umbrella breaks
The entourage scurries

You’ll find in a hurry

Re-bowed to fake eternity
Teched into docility

Herded like sacrificial goats
Stampeded by sheep
Toward Tech’s moats

Made of sweet fragility