“Beyond economics or politics, Globalism is a system that offers a life raft which is heading toward a machine-future. Disembark and find the great We, a construct of integrated parts, each of which is an individual, in a state of spiritual amnesia.”
“Global solution” means the individual is cut out of the equation, he doesn’t count, he doesn’t mean anything in the larger scheme of things, he’s just another pawn and cipher to move around on the board.
This is purposeful.
This is the script for the future: create problems whose only solution appears to be collective.
Psychologically, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually divert the individual’s attention from his own vision, his own profound desires, his own imagination—and place it within The Group (“all of humanity”).
Propagandize the idea that, if the individual concerns himself with anything other than The Group, he is selfish, greedy, inhumane. He is a criminal.
More and more, this is how the young are being trained these days.
The grand “we” is being sold to them like a cheap street drug. They buy in. They believe this “we” is real, instead…
I got my 30 day chip and then relapsed. I was nervous about telling Handy Hubby. I couldn’t decide if it was better to admit it immediately, or to wait until he was home from work. In person, that’s better, right?
Or, was I just stalling.
August, my annual month of failures. I was doing so good; I was so confident. Then BAM, it’s always the same, from white to black in an instant. What is this mysterious pull we call addiction? It’s more powerful than the will of the most powerful around us. In my circle of fellow addicts not even a one commented they’d noticed I’d been away, so absorbed are these friends in addictions of their own.
I was on the wagon, as they say. Or is it off the wagon? I can never remember. It felt good, really good. I didn’t want it anymore, I could see through its tempting illusions, the anxiety and regret and guilt had vanished. I was above it, looking down on my previous weaknesses as a queen might a pauper. Over-confidence, perhaps. Maybe I should’ve gone to a meeting.
Is there a Fakebooks Anonymous? In fact, a whole Escape Social Media extended program for abusers (preferably in Hawaii)?
I see acute and chronic symptoms in folks all around me, yet few of us even try to escape it even knowing it’s being monitored and manipulated by the CIA, the NSA and who knows who in the world else. The evidence and confessions cannot be ignored, the cognitive dissonance cannot continue to control us all forever.
I wanted to find someone, that’s what did it, my relapse. How sad is that? I had no other way to find this person except through FB. This is unhealthy dependence, a solution that creates another problem, quite a few more in fact.
But I found our sweet pups there!
I have 300+ “friends” there!
How will I know what’s happening with the half dozen actually friends who post there? Don’t I learn what’s going on in the world there?
Every new person I meet wants to connect on FB; it’s one of the first questions now between strangers who want to stay in touch. Are you on FB?
Can I say ‘no’? It seems almost . . . impolite. Not to mention, a bit suspicious. Who’s not on FB these days? Might he be a criminal? Who is she hiding from?
Whether on the wagon or off it, round and round I go.
Maybe I need some FB methadone. Like, to go to back to my favorite old comfort zones: Love Boat, Fantasy Island, Charlie’s Angels.
I hate August on the homestead. There, I’ve admitted it. I can’t stand pretending. Sitting at the kitchen table looking at the last of about 250 pounds of pears, I could almost cry.
I’d like to sell it all right now and move to Fiji. I imagine moving permanently into a rented beach hut complete with pool boy serving me colorful fruity cocktails all day. Not processing pears. Not plucking dozens of ducks. Not gaping helplessly at the crops becoming engulfed, scorched, withering to their deaths.
Handy Hubby could even join me there if he wanted to, it’s not his fault after all. The bugs, the heat, my aching hands, the better part of an entire nation on vacation, as if that weren’t bad enough.
Because then on top of it all is the garden. Every year, the garden horror show, unrecognizable from a month ago, my annually recurring failure at keeping nature mildly tamed.
In anticipation of my August mood, this year I planted loads of flowers at the garden entrance. Flowers and puppies are just about all that’s keeping depression at bay. Some are miserable in the dead of winter; I am miserable in the dead of summer.
Mowing stopped mid-way for stabbing arthritic pain in my wrists and fingers. I don’t care anymore. I can’t care anymore. There are plenty of cow peas and a few ripe melons in that mess, if you dare. After weeks at work, this is what Hubby must come home to, and rescue me from, furthering my shameful failure.
Okra successfully outmaneuvering the pernicious grasses, but I don’t like okra.
The pigs still have their wee escape, and I have mine.
Puppy love.
Puppy pics are way more fun than chemtrail pics.
I could be taking photos of the regular assault in our skies with the disgusting aerosols of climate engineering, as I was for a number of months. Another failure it seems, because I can’t bare it, it doesn’t seem to be helping anything at all, except for normalizing abhorrent “science”.
I simply have no more capacity or patience for folks who don’t, can’t or won’t see, or who don’t care, or who like, the whole-scale rape, murder and pillage of our planet. When will it stop? When will the madness heal? When will a mass of mankind have had enough of bowing to their masters as they crack the whip on the laws of nature?
I’m on vacation alright, just like the bulk of a nation, it’s just a vacation on my window seat, directly under the a/c unit, where I’m grateful to continue my climate engineering research thanks to these more tireless and consistent deeply concerned citizens.
Cheeses currently in our aging fridge, which is nothing more than a cheap beverage model sadly impersonating a cave in Switzerland: Swiss (of course), Tomme (another Alpine cheese), Munster, Camembert (wrapped in fig leaves), Pepper Jack, Farmhouse Cheddar (cloth-wrapped), Gouda, Dill Havarti, Mozzarella (the old-fashioned way), Ricotta. Plus, in the kitchen fridge: yogurt, kefir, Mexican queso, and chocolate ice cream–all homemade with the freshest Grade A, raw milk from small farm, grass-fed cows available for purchase in East Texas.
These are the kind of cheeses one has a tough time finding where to legally buy, or sell, not only in America, but in quite a few other Western countries as well. In most of the countries who consider themselves ‘free’ as far as I’m aware, acquiring licensing for everything dairy under the Federal sun will still not grant you the right to sell such cheeses. Big Brother is so very worried about our health, after all. http://theplate.nationalgeographic.com/2015/09/30/some-like-it-raw-the-state-of-unpasteurized-cheese-in-the-u-s/
Some of these are cheeses the way our ancestors made them–even using fig sap as rennet and kefir as starter culture. Others of them have been made possible only with the help of modern science–freeze-dried cultures in order to create the holes and flavor of Swiss, for example, or the orange-rinded stinky varieties like Munster or Limburger, or the blue veins of the pungent Roquefort, the reliable white mold of a Camembert–which make it possible to imitate, with a reasonable degree of success, the most famous of region-specific cheeses we’ve come to know and love over the generations.
The first time I tasted cheese that did not come wrapped in plastic I was a teenager in France. It was also the first time I tasted milk straight from the cow. I was stunned to realize these products, considered the same from my own home to my host family’s home, had almost nothing in common. To the eye they appeared congruent, but to the other senses they were not even distant cousins.
But it’s one thing to harness an appreciation for the depth and subtitles of a finely- crafted cheese, it’s quite another to think you can make one. In Texas. In an ‘aging fridge’ from Wal-mart. With $7/gallon milk you drive 3 hours to acquire and sometimes using cultures manufactured in a lab.
Is it just for the love of cheese? It’s true, while doubtless they can’t compete with their cave-aged predecessors, still available in their natural state to only a precious few, I’ve made some of the best cheeses I’ve tasted available in this neck of the Piney Woods.
Handy Hubby appreciates my rather expensive and quite time-consuming hobby, but that’s just a bonus. I think these old skills and crafts are crucial to maintain and pass along to future generations, that’s for sure. But none of these good reasons would be enough, even all together, if it weren’t for the pleasure of the process.
The sensuality of cheese-making cannot be over-stated and to describe it would take poetry far superior than is my capacity to create. This is a hobby that touches, demands, cultivates every one of our senses and a fair amount of intellect as well. A whole-minded approach is crucial for success, because process alone will only get you so far.
You may scoff and think a cheese is a cheese, it’s a matter of taste alone, and they mostly taste the same. If so, you poor, poor dear.
“Those . . . from whom nature has withheld the legacy of taste, have long faces, and long eyes and noses, whatever their height there is something elongated in their proportions. Their hair is dark and unglossy, and they are never plump, it was they who invented trousers.”
Anthelme Brillat-Savarin The Physiology of Tastequoted in A Natural History of the Sensesby Diane Ackerman
You may laugh and say . . . “sound?” If cheese-making requires a subtle practice of every sense than that includes sound . . . how silly.
Someday I will make the case for sound in good cheese-making, because I think there’s a case to be made. In addition to my own experimentation, I suspect I need search no further than the many monasteries made famous for their cheeses for more supporting evidence.
Cheese is still more pleasure than exudes the senses in the thrill of retrieving and treasuring a fading art, and in marrying the inevitable couple of progress and tradition.
“We are all served more and more by factory machines, maybe inevitably, and by schedules, even our own, and in time, as has often been pointed out, we come to serve them. Some of us are becoming chafed by it all. We seek to reaffirm ourselves, to do and make for ourselves, to find new ways to do so–many of them admittedly old ways, but new and revitalizing ones to us and our friends. We want to find out how the basic components of our lives are made and come to us to use. We seek to become part once more of the processes, and possessors once more of the details of our own existence.”
The Cheeses and Wines of England and France, with Notes on Irish Whiskey by John Ehle
A few favorite references and a favorite resource:
“Earth’s societies have moved rapidly to an inverse, an upside down structure, in which freedom is looked upon as a privilege grudgingly accorded in the absence of a reason to take it away.”
The individual vs. the illusion of consensus reality
by Jon Rappoport
July 21, 2017
This is such a supercharged subject, I could start from a dozen places.
But let’s begin here: the individual is unique, because he is himself. He is unique because he has his own ideas, because he has his own desires, because he has his own power. That power belongs to no one else.
In particular, it doesn’t belong to the State. The State will always try to suggest that it is granting power to the individual, but this is a lie. A lie broadcast with ill-intent.
While everyone else is trying to manufacture connections to the group, under the banner of a false sense of community, the individual is going in the opposite direction.
Philip K Dick: “Insanity—to have to construct a picture of one’s life, by making inquiries of others.”
“Fakebook,” Handy Hubby calls it. Of course he’s right, I’ve long known he’s right. I left Fakebook years ago, then went back, against my better judgment. It has become to me one more insufferable Catch-22 of the modern age.
I’ve met a few good folks there and it was the source in finding our new livestock guard dog pups, who are so precious it’s a real challenge not to spoil them!
It is a good tool for keeping in touch, no doubt. I’ve also appreciated how it’s like the modern equivalent of scrapbooking in some fundamental ways. They keep better track of our photos than I do. They record it all. And therein lies the Catch 22.
Fakebook has tipped in scales to more negative than positive, not just for me, I see folks leaving it and considering leaving it and I can’t blame them, in fact, I’ve again just rejoined the leavers, and this time, I’m never going back.
Oh my, I just felt a twang of panic in my gut. Never? Did I really mean that? That’s so very . . . permanent.
I know it’s wrong! I know they are spying, manipulating, engineering, censoring, and if that weren’t bad enough, the ads are over the top. I just can’t stand it. In fact, I find I’m turning to books, real books printed on real paper, just to be able to find a recipe without eight ads and pop-ups attached.
And I know very well it’s not just about the advertising, that’s just the surface level annoyance and distraction. It is about Big Data, which I’ve written about several times already, but for those still uninformed, some background material.
If I am to align my life with my principles, as I’ve sworn to do, I cannot support this level of technocracy. Next will be the Smart phones, out of our lives! We do just fine without satellite TV already. We will vehemently reject all 5G roll-out “Smart” crap that we possibly can.
We will get better at it, these things take considerable time and effort. We are gradually becoming more refined in making due with the old ways, and isn’t it ironic. I jumped on-board with educational technology as a grad student, made it my thing, taught online courses since the first years that was possible.
And now I look and shiver as at a golem. Oh my stars, what have we created?
I must take a deep bow to those who saw it decades before I did, the ones I once considered practically prehistoric. The ‘old folk’ who were so afraid of technology, so concerned about privacy. The paranoid ones who suspected, no, even had valid proof, that the government could not be trusted with this information power house.
We are in the process collectively of accepting enslavement to the grid. If you still believe the powers-that-be are benevolent, that once was me. I can’t say all that it was that blinded me then, I was seeing it and reading it, but it wasn’t yet REAL.
I’m reminded of famous words that made a decent impression on me so long ago I can’t recall, by Ralph Waldo Emerson. “Society everywhere is in conspiracy against the manhood of every one of its members. Society is a joint-stock company, in which the members agree, for the better securing of his bread to each shareholder, to surrender the liberty and culture of the eater. The virtue in most request is conformity. Self-reliance is its aversion. It loves not realities and creators, but names and customs.”
We, Kensho, have been learning about self-reliance. It’s more work and more responsibility than I’d known before, certainly much more physical labor. Many sacrifices have been made by us both. We stopped traveling. Our social and political priorities have shifted. Our values and worldview and tolerance levels have become much more refined. Our skill-sets have increased ten-fold. One of these days I’ll make a list.
But this post is about Fakebook. What it offers is not worth what it takes away. In its absence I’ve started reading fiction again. I’ve also decided to take up sewing, which surprises me about my own self as much as when I took up cheesemaking, my now favorite hobby by far and one I’m getting pretty good at.
Fakebook is a time-sucking, energy-wasting, spell-casting, manipulating, ad-pushing pain in the ass. I’m done.
“It is easy in the world to live after the world’s opinion; it is easy in solitude to live after our own; but the great man is he who in the midst of the crowd keeps with perfect sweetness the independence of solitude.” Ralph Waldo Emerson
A new and dramatic documentary about Geoengineering–I especially appreciate the social programming aspect of it. There’s a dozen ways or more working to condition the public to accept everything and anything without complaint or even public debate. It is precisely as I’ve been saying for years–we’ve been trained to adapt, adjust, conform, comply–like prisoners or slaves or livestock.
Now, if we start revolting against this assault in our skies and against our health, well-being and environment, what will the public insist on . . . regulation. Global governance will become the de facto solution. So once again “they”–whoever they are–create the problem, seed and reseed and reseed the public reaction, then provide the solution. They will keep on with that successful formula until it stops working, obviously. Wouldn’t you?
FrankenSkies is an 80 minute social change documentary regarding the Solar Geoengineering/Chemtrail agenda that affects every living being on earth. The struggle of bringing awareness to this subject, despite the obstacles of a socially engineered populace and the military industrial complex with its endless resources, is palpable in this awakening truth feature. An impeccably timed eye opening expose, the film reveals the campaign to normalize chemical cloud formations via atmospheric aerosol dispersals. Up against a normalization timetable encompassing a controlled media and an indoctrinated educational and political system, activists ask the question : Is your silence your consent? A shocking informative film on climate engineering, frequency control and CIA manipulation, the film’s narrative unfolds through a historical timeline of experimentation on humanity, bringing us to a modern day laboratory that encompasses the air we breath and dictates when and where the sun shall shine, or not..
Mowing stopped mid-way for stabbing arthritic pain in my wrists and fingers. I don’t care anymore. I can’t care anymore. There are plenty of cow peas and a few ripe melons in that mess, if you dare. After weeks at work, this is what Hubby must come home to, and rescue me from, furthering my shameful failure.
The pigs still have their wee escape, and I have mine.
“Fakebook,” Handy Hubby calls it. Of course he’s right, I’ve long known he’s right. I left Fakebook years ago, then went back, against my better judgment. It has become to me one more insufferable Catch-22 of the modern age.
