I don’t suppose any conspiracy theorist will ever get an apology from any of the many for all their eye rolls and insults and blind bobbleheads promoting every lie and agenda of their corporate and government masters.
Instead, they’ll sign right on for whatever old bullshit that smells new again. Lucky for us, the United Nations continues to make that very easy for them.
The UN loves us all so very much, they propose we end capitalism to make way for, drum roll please . . .
Happytalism is a new economic paradigm which places happiness, well-being, and freedom at the center of human development models, systems, and all life.
Advancing a new economic paradigm of happytalism for humanity means mobilizing $30 trillion toward achieving the 17 UN Global Goals, 169 targets by 2030.
Advancing a new economic paradigm of happytalism for humanity means mobilizing $30 trillion toward achieving the 17 UN Global Goals, 169 targets by 2030.
Happiness is a fundamental right, and the UN is going to provide it for the world. Don’t you feel special? Just be happy, no matter what!
Health Impact News, thanks for some real reporting.
I bet ‘contact tracing’ is part of their happiness regimen. As well as global mandatory vaccines they’ll call ‘optional’ but you won’t be able to work, shop, travel without them.
But while you’re home you can be entertained with mind-numbing garbage, and remain eternally happy.
Handy Hubby claims he’s becoming a social distancing bully.
I think he’s becoming a perfect disciple of civil disobedience and further honing his already natural aptitudes in that essential discipline. He complied with Costco’s face mask dumbass police-y, but at least he makes it expensive for the collective in so doing.
The corporations will only respond to strong collective action, strong collective action can only be flamed by the torch of the strong individual.
So, of his own accord, he chose to crowd the bubble. He wore the mask, because we have a fetish for bulk shopping, and I hate shopping. He took another one for the team.
He just made a few of his own rules along the way. Like, once a shopper’s indecision caused him a moment’s annoyance, he broached the six-foot distancing zone, causing enough discomfort for the shopper to stop hemming and hawing and make a choice already, so he could move in for his kill.
I’ve already mentioned in many posts he’s nearly an expert marksman. He shops the same way he shoots, which was the same way he seduced me—move in quietly, have a concise agenda, work fast, take no prisoners.
As further recrimination, he repeatedly pulled down his mask. Why would he pull such a stunt? Oh, just because he couldn’t breath. Well, I guess breathing is considered the entire reason for social distancing these days, so mark that another winner!
For my part, I slowly, oh so slowly, basked in the empty aisles of my favorite antique store, touching everything of even remote interest. I filed longingly through several old books and bought a few, with cash. Then I put another few items on credit card, and watched as the clerk, who knows me now, because she knows I love it there, use hand sanitizer. I said, “You know, I know you’re following police-y, but that stuff is not good for you.” She confided, I know, I’m just trying to be cautious and accommodating. I said, with a wink, refill the bottle with lavender-scented water and aloe vera gel , no one will suspect a thing.


Recently, one of Hubby’s passengers was tested positive for the cornholio, now he’s lying in the hammock drinking beer for breakfast. This is what quarantine looks like here at Chez Shell, aka Kensho Homestead.
Thanks Corporatocracy! Greatest Apocalypse Ever!
I will end here and now blessed with a river of knowing in this song, passed along through the hands of one receptive woman, and in deep bows to those who are waving along the banks as I flow, have inspired me, challenged me, caused me the pain and chaos that sparks my flame, as an individual, passing, in wisdom.
And occasionally, with great and aching discernment, even very selective gratitude.
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.
I’ve had a recurring nightmare for a decade or so.This is not unusual for me, I’ve had them all my life, the contents and themes just shift.
I only have an elementary knowledge of dreams and their symbolism and I avoid over-researching in this domain, because I believe these things to be highly subjective.But still, I try anyway to record them and discern their meaning through dynamics happening in my life and all around me.I know someday I’ll have a broader lens and previously unseen layers of the dreams will be revealed at the right time as long as I don’t fall for the illusion and convenience of ‘forgetting’.
This most recent recurring stream recently ended and I’m so glad for that.I believe energetically the message the dream meant to convey was purged, after a traumatic few months last spring, which thanks to any kind readers who’ve hung around that long and are paying attention, because I don’t have to repeat the entire storm scenario.
This recurring nightmare was different, but very similar versions of losing everything and being lost—being alone in a big, foreign, sometimes bustling, sometimes abandoned city, unable to contact anyone because I was without money, had lost my wallet, phone, even my shoes and sometimes clothes.I’m always barefoot in these dreams, on the pavement of a foreign city, completely without support or resources.
Then just over a week ago the dream shifted, dramatically, for the better.It started off just the same, no wallet, no shoes, no phone, no contacts, in another crowd, of this time all women.I’ll skip the boring details.It was some kind of meeting group in a mall, I set my bag down for minute, then walked outside.Once outside I realized I’d forgotten my bag, knew just where, went right back in, but the bag was gone.I immediately yelled at the women there to give me back my bag, that I know someone took it, and I was very angry.
All of sudden, a woman threw my bag back at me.And then a dozen women began throwing at me all the wallets I’d ever ‘lost’ (in the dreams).I was stunned, but happily so, and was marveling at all the different shapes and colors of them from over the years.My anger that they might have been stolen, and my shame that I’d lost them, dissipated instantly.I smiled, dropped them all and walked back out the door.
Today I read two excellent article by Michael Tsarion, and listened to an interview on it.It struck me that these passages are related somehow to what I hope is the permanent passage of this nightmare for me, and also where I think the culture in general is currently circling the drain.
I wish I had the insight now to connect the dots for any curious readers, but I’m afraid I don’t.I think it’s one of those cases of knowing what you’re doing without knowing what you’re doing.
All text below from either of two recent MT articles: Souls in Darkness and/or
“Basically, human consciousness and behavior are directed by the search for pleasure and the avoidance of pain. The Marcusans decided to co-opt this basal tendency and use it as a tool for building the utopian society they wish to see replace Western civilization.
The Marcusan plan was to establish a society based on the Pleasure Principle. They believed they were following the course of history, and that their dream was quite rational.
Success was assured as long as one systematically removed obstacles causing distress, want and injustice. Hence the welfare dependent “Nanny States” that now proliferate throughout Europe and America. Hence the endless supply of bread and circuses and “good times” had by all.
Nine times out of ten, there’s not much wrong with the psychopath’s sexual life. Why should there be? It’s just a physical act. Because no feeling is involved, and because there’s no genuine care for the other person, what’s the problem? The psychopath has no hang-ups in this regard, no need to sweat bullets like a neurotic or seek out head-shrinkers to help him develop confidence with the opposite sex. Sex is mere recreation for the psychopath.
Indeed, male psychopaths often have no problem getting dates. Many women actually find themselves attracted to them, adoring the fact that they can finally be with a “man” uninhibited by loathsome morals, ideals, sensitivity, hang-ups or qualms. They just get on with it, and don’t care about boring social graces. In extreme form this condition is known as Hybristophilia.
Since the psychopath is unencumbered by emotion, he can easily focus his brain and learn things quickly. If he already has a high IQ, his success is certain. This is why we find a great many psychopaths in high places. They covet the power offered them by religious and political appointments. Our present hierarchical systems make it easy for psychopathic types to excel. Indeed, our world is infested with them. Without upgrading our psychological knowledge, we have no way of ridding ourselves of their loathsome presence.
Sadly, no expert on pathological types dares utter a word of this in public. There’s no longer any mention of the effect on society of psychopaths in high places, and no comment about how whole nations can be psychopathic.”
But, he had a mental illness. But, he meant well. But, he was a good provider. But, I’m uncomfortable when you agree with me exactly, at the exact wrong moment. And, by the way, Happy Fucking Mother’s Day!
Just another loungey Sunday on the wee homestead. And just wanted to share a bit of it with y’all.
Peek-a-boo, I see you, hiding in the geranium!
Handy Hubby crushes again crafting a chute for loading livestock.
I’ve just tried my first hive split of the season, fingers crossed! And I came across this excellent document, for any beekeepers, or wannabes, transferring a typical nuc/ hive into a TopBar. I’ve not tried it yet, but it looks very do-able on paper. I really like topbar, even if it’s for all the wrong reasons, like esthetics, lack of upper body strength and general laziness.
As much as I can appreciate spiders, this one had to be evicted from a bait hive, sorry little fellow, but I know the bees don’t love you like I do.
Our one Langstroth hive, bedazzled, the only hive I use more conventional methods. Still completely untreated, but with full foundation and a queen excluder in order to harvest the honey.
The garden is looking fabulous, fingers crossed again. With just a bit of good fortune, this will be our most fruitful year yet. After last summer, with almost no garden due to a shoulder injury and gaping miserably at large downed trees all over our property, it’s hard to even express how wonderful that feels.
One of over a dozen, over one year later. Eventually they sort of look like yard art.Wild grapes growing great!
Two antique roses I planted about 7 years ago and have no time to bother with, yet they still do their thing. On the left is Apothecary, a rambler great for rose hips. Behind Buttercup, our most agreeable model, is Chestnut, needing some serious pruning. Ain’t got no time for that!
Moving to the veggie garden, a friend gave me seeds of cardoon, a great heat-loving alternative to artichokes (which I’ve tried to grow every year we’ve been here, with no success). I’m hoping the cilantro will bolt more slowly tucked tight under the eggplant. I’m trying a new supposed cilantro substitute this year called papalo. We will see if it’s even remotely as delicious as the real thing.
One of my favorite herbs, chervil, aka gourmet parsley, with a hint of anise flavor, already bolting because it’s a cool season crop. And one of my favorite wild plants, mullein, because it’s really cool looking, but survives the heat just fine, not to mention it’s many medicinal benefits.
I’m enjoying a YT permaculture channel new to me, a bit high on the marketing for my taste, but loads of good info for the beginners or the old hats, nonetheless.
It was a small town, deep in the Piney Woods. There was the usual traffic.Every drive-thru food establishment had lines around the corner, mostly with $60,000 pick-up trucks.
The grocery store shelves were full.Signs everywhere boasted reasonable prices: $6.99/beef tenderloin $1.99/rack of pork ribs $.69/pound chicken quarters $2.29/dozen eggs
Yet, new employees emerge wearing bright vests emblazoned with a new title:‘Social Monitor’. Vaccines are promised at lightening speed.
In the dinosaur media, new lingo and new rules fill the crevices that fact-banning once carved out: social distancing, home quarantine, face masks, flatten the curve, global lockdown, hotspots, crowd restrictions, contact tracing.
In the alternative media, looming threats of food shortages, mass starvation, accusations of vast conspiracies spin through a dark web of shills and trolls.Scapegoats are threatened and delivered.Crisis actors mingle with confused arm-chair detectives while artificial intelligence collects all the Big Data of the Virtual One World Takeover.
It was a pandemic. It was a Plandemic. It was the fog of war, against a virus. Welcome . . .
