I can’t think of another proverb that has more betrayed human civilization over the centuries than: “It’s God’s will.”
First of all, if God has a will at all, I’m certain no man alive today or ever has any clue whatsoever what it is. Secondly, anyone who claims to know what is the will of God should be treated with deep suspicion, not elevated to sainthood.
Thirdly, since so many others are doing it, it makes me want to do it too.
So, during these times of Our Great Global Scamdemic, I claim God’s will is . . .
Rage Moms! (Please send my Sainthood Certificate care of: Kensho’s Club of Common Saints.)
Along with their tribes of non-compliant, pissed off women, rage moms give me gobs of hope. I just heard about a few of them yesterday and my pride in humanity did indeed runneth over in that moment.
In case any readers need some serious rays of hope in our forthcoming ‘dark winter’ (according to the tyrants), click below, and may your faith in humanity be restored, if only for an hour or a season.
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 . . .
We must thank our lucky stars once again. Last post we caught our first swarm right in the garden, and if that wasn’t easy enough, this one flew right into our trap, as if guided by the Divine!
Positioned high in a pine tree with lovely views of open pasture, lightly seasoned with a few drops of lemon grass essential oil, move-in ready with two frames of fully drawn comb, and violà, our first volunteer tenants.
Apparently they were not privy to any shelter-in-place sort of order.
Guess who else is not abiding by the social distancing commands from their government . . .
And these crazy rebels, well, it’s just shocking how little they care . . .
Bubba does not respect their Authorité!
Buttercup doesn’t know what psy-op even means! Whaaaa?!?
Last night Tori came to me in a dream and stated matter-of-factly, “I’ll take ‘em all down, easy-peasy, just lemme at ‘em!”
And I replied, “No, each must choose for himself, otherwise we just get more tyranny.”
“LORD Technology is Saturn Worship. It’s the religion of slavery and narcissism. All academia, governments, and courts are Saturn worship. Christ is real. But people are worshiping a human sacrifice. He was the Passover Lamb. To give him your prana is to feed it to the owners of the ritual. The True Cross, or Christ, is a spiritual astringent – the most crucial archetype you can have to survive Saturnism. Christianity is a government trauma cult made by Saturnalians to keep you docile, meek, egoless, and dumb. The Bible was a relic of LORD Technology written to gaslight you. The book sucks all of your cosmology about God into the black hole of scripture. It’s a vacuum where your creativity and prana are sucked into deep space where it can do nothing forever.
I hope this clears things up. After all – this is the Apocolypse.” James True
This question was emblazoned on a bright yellow t-shirt with a smiley face, gifted from Hubby’s place of employment several years ago.It’s been the butt of jokes ever since.
Folks can’t even talk to their own loved ones about how they’re really feeling, but the wise guys in Human Resources imagine a worker will feel motivated to show and tell thanks to a cheesy slogan on a free t-shirt.That’s a special brand of marketing brilliance right there.
I suppose there’s more than a few veterans who feel this way, too—they need to communicate how they’re feeling as a form of psychic hygiene—yet when they do there’s a half a dozen ‘highly-trained’ shrinks taking notes and filling the next DSM with their dysfunctional honesty and using their confessions to prescribe a list of solutions based entirely on poppycock.
Happy.Sad.Angry.Bored.Afraid.Please to check appropriate box.That’s become, please to choose appropriate emoji.
But, How are you really feeling?These times are being prescribed as the days that try men’s souls—so I am asking out of sincere caring—how are you really feeling?I suspect you don’t even have sufficient words to describe it, since feelings came long before words, which is why man had to invent art. And then reduce it to emojis.
Did you ever consider that love and fear are both feelings of petrification?They are emotions of freezing in time and space.They serve to protect the species through seduction.In love we long for time to stand still, yet it races.In our memory or recollection it takes hours to sift through minutes.As in fear time seems to stand still, an agonizing splitting into nanoseconds.
Where were you when JFK was shot?Who told you about 9/11?What were you doing when the hurricane hit?Why didn’t you evacuate/shelter in place/donate/volunteer/follow orders/surrender your weapon/buy ammo/plant a garden . . .??
How are you really feeling?Does it fit in the box?
Fear, like love, are the static aspects of feelings that are meant to cause actions—those of survival—run for your life, or care for another’s.
Does fear, or love, inspire you to action?Why, or, why not?
Please feel free to reply at length in space below. True empathic response to follow.
I couldn’t agree more with Max Igan when he repeats that losing our life skills is assuredly one of the most serious vulnerabilities of modern civilization.
Of course, I can’t agree with his ‘no private property’ stance, but that’s another post.
Igan’s outlook reminds me when I was first introduced to the theory of Spiral Dynamics, when my fellow students (mostly middle-aged women of a relatively superior income class) immediately ‘recognized’ themselves in the ‘highly evolved’ stage of ‘Turquoise’. Big surprise.
I was far too polite when I refrained from pointing out what was obvious to me even as a novice, having already been ploughing away on the wee homestead by then for several years.
“Your Turquoise is built on a house of cards, Madame,” is what was obvious to me immediately, and which I longed to express. If it were built on a house of sand you’d be far safer, I’d then add.
Even my favorite synopsis of this social theory fails to highlight the significance of ‘Beige’ — the foundations of civilization.This stage is considered to be subsistence living, hand-to-mouth, barely advanced to basic tribal existence.
The theorist here, Don Beck, demonstrates respect, even some reverence to their ancient wisdom, but with the assumption, it seems obvious to me, that an evolved civilization has technological immunity to such bio-psycho-social devolution that would accompany this exceptional vulnerability of modern life.
You think butchering and gardening, farming and foraging are skills beneath you, Family Silicon Valley?
Or, in the tolerant, nostalgic age they are, at best, quaint lost skills to pine about and imitate in your Petri dishes? Ya’ll can’t possible recognize your feeble attempts bound to fail as you attempt to fit all of creation into your teensy-BIG Smart World?
Think again, former friends. Here are the real skills armies and resilient cultures are built on.
Me, a cheese-maker? Didn’t see that comin’!
Here’s your reality, Family Turquoise, if the grid goes down, you can’t survive, not even for a fortnight. Psychic breakdown would occur almost immediately, due to lack of any authentic earthly connections or spiritual foundations in your personal or family or community unit.
Then the true reality of your vulnerability would hit home for real. You have NO LIFE SKILLS, at all! Not spiritually, not physically, not emotionally.
Most Americans these days can’t even cook from scratch.This skill was lost in barely two generations.And what’s worse, they can’t even fathom what happens to the individual mind, let alone the family and in turn the collective consciousness, when faced head-on with annihilation.
The more ‘superior’ one calls themselves in the modern world is directly related to how vulnerable they really are.Perhaps that’s what the well-quoted Bible translation meant in claiming, “The meek shall inherit the earth.”
As a wise woman in an era of uncertainty, who are you going to put your confidence in—the wealthy CEO of Fiction, USA with a San Francisco loft worth a few million on paper—or the ‘poor’ man who can trap, shoot, butcher and even cook the meat for your table?
That the ‘A Class’ woman chooses poorly in this situation doesn’t surprise me at all considering our current state of affairs and the fact that of the many supporters as well as volumes discussing this social theory of Spiral Dynamics, I’ve yet to find one who gets the full nuance of Beige.
Modern folk just don’t want to go there.It’s like the old lyrics, “How ya gonna keep them down on the farm once they’ve seen gay Paris?” It’s hard work after all.
It’s not just whistling Dixie in your Tu-Tu, thanks anyway, Grandma.
So we get Soy-Boys who are good at sales, rather than competent men who can bring home the real bacon.The ‘elite-class’ calls this ‘evolution’.This is ‘spiritual’ advancement.
Why might they promote this among the plebs and their entertainers? Heaven knows!
If one isn’t capable of hurting a fly, then we’ve evolved to societal sainthood, according to these shysters. This is their Utopia.
As for the adult-children bolstering these Pied Pipers?How long shall the competent among a functional colony support them, I wonder?
On the pervasiveness of child sexual abuse and trafficking in the global culture, Horsley’s book adds a critical dimension of insight.Examining his own upbringing in elite, or at least wannabe elite circles, he weaves an intricate tapestry of how these deplorable practices have come to be accepted and even to proliferate in our modern era.
From the back cover: “The Vice of Kings maps the shadowy intersection between progressive politics, psychosexual research, intelligence programs, behavior modification, occult ritual and philosophy, and organized child abuse, to reveal long-term social and cultural engineering goals throughout the twentieth and twenty-first centuries.”
This book is a conspirology, to use his own terminology. In it he takes the ‘whistleblower’s path’ which is a path I deeply respect, but which socially, as he rightly claims is: “the lowest and most despised station of all, a traitor not just to my class but to my blood—a dirty rat.”
“To bring it down to very simple terms, and to what I know for sure: The conspiratorial legacy I have inherited is that my father hated his father and was never able, or willing, to tell us why. He died still hating him, perhaps partially because he could never talk about the reasons why.My brother also hated his father, and likewise died with (into?) that hatred. I am the last man standing, left staring at a powerful ancestral bond of hatred that, like Shakespeare, goes back countless generations. To begin to understand how and why this bond was created is to start to dissolve the hatred with understanding, which is the first stirring of love. But it also means looking more closely at the reasons for that hatred, and so finding the source of it.And the closest, most immediate source is right here and now, within myself.”
He discusses at length the influence of The Fabian Society, well-known to conspiracy researches as the ‘wolf in sheep’s clothing’ of social engineering groups, displayed proudly on their ‘logo’.
“The prevalence of child sexual abuse in our society is a bitter pill to swallow. The idea that it could be organized, systemic and intentional (part of a ‘hidden policy’) is a whole bottle of bitterness.Correlation does not equal causation; just because we can map an interest in promoting the idea of child sexuality, or in prematurely sexualizing children through various forms of interference, or, most disturbingly of all, in using the psychological trauma (stress) of sexual abuse to ‘crack’ psyches open and thereby shape culture at large, none of this proves that widespread child sexual abuse is a direct result of these interests or agendas. But I trust even the most skeptical reader will allow for some relation between the two.”
I’ve found this book to be a valuable contribution in navigating the shadowy world of the swamp creatures where the culture-shapers roam.
But . . . How did the magic bullet get ricocheted from the high rise to the grassy knoll, through the driver then the head and then Jackie stayed in sticky, bloody cloths all day? Have you ever tried that, even for like, half a day?
But . . . How did their passports just appear on the pavement of serious destruction, like serious fire and brimstone shyte, while the rest of the rubble was being shipped to China?
But . . . What’s up with building 7?
But . . . Who is John Galt?
I LIKE big BUTs, yo! You, no?!
2. You need us, Gilligan’s Island
So obvious already, right? If I need you and you need me and we need us and all this fuss, well, clearly we are a happy needy collective stuck together on a tiny island singing crappy songs that were shoved down our throats since childhood.
3. B-52s, everything they ever did. Own private Idaho, is your mind, what, I’m not your little girl? Limburger? WTF is she screaming that we called music and lyrics? That played in our malls and on our radios and now reinstalls itself in triplicate on my current rainbow filters, you assclowns! Induce psychosis, call this alternative music.
4. Back in Black Aka, Nihilism 3.0. Take the black pill, everything old is new again, we can dissect JFK until the cows come home in 2525.If man is still alive.
Nothing new under the sun, son.
Rock the crowhouse, casbah.
I met a girl, of about 7
Her grandfather loved to sit on her, and laugh
Her uncle loved to throw seaweed on her head, and laugh
President Trump is the true trump card because he is a master manipulator. This is a skill that is highly prized in American culture—the gift and craft of the card sharks, the Players—we reward this brand of flinchless bluffing with high praise and big $$$.
We even give its own fun, fuzzy word, so it doesn’t sound like lying. Just bluffing.
Most of Trump’s lies are lies of omission. A perfect example would be his recent lie about this being a good year for farmers in America. For a select few corporate farmers this has indeed been a very good year. All you have to do is show a couple tall smiling types in cowboy hats on stage while presenting this Trumpspectacle and the public buys it. Sure, a miserable few know the whole truth, but the majority believe their eyes and ears and not their sense of reason, which is why this tactic works so well.
As long as a few are getting fabulously rich, it doesn’t matter what the hordes of losers think.
The truly clueless ones will play along each election and convince themselves, despite all odds, that the next guy will be different.
Losers we are indeed, according to the sociopaths running this asylum, because we’re not good at their Big Games, yet we keep coming back for more. Wouldn’t you be feeling bloated and boastful in their shoes? They keep winning, while we keep playing and after all—All’s fair in love and war, and it’s always about love and war. That sums up the entirety of modern life and politics right there.
We’ve got the great ‘lovers’ like Epstein on one side of the ring of distraction and division, and the great warmongers on the other. And what a match it is! Timeless, universal, griping dramatic strategy all around—we are indeed privileged in this country to have a front-row seat—just like George Carlin joked to laughing audiences for decades.
Isn’t it so funny?! They got us again, how about that! The little devils, how do they keep getting away with it?
Such a mystery! Whatever will they come up with next?!
Stay tuned . . . I’m sure the next gripping episode is right around the corner.
Passion is not chaos. Drama is not intimacy. Love is not Care.
I am not you. You are not we.
If you insist my blood, sweat and tears be used to line your pockets, then I will instead choose to fertilize the roses with them.
If you insist I choose your laws over my own well-being then I will break those laws by every means, hook or crook.
If you insist I donate my organs to serve your nefarious aims, then those organs will come to you riddled with the poisons I willfully ingest, that I gorge on simply for the pleasure of poisoning your agenda deeper in return.
If you insist I offer my thoughts to you, measured, tempered, on your silver platter, twisted in pretty plaits and coated in marzipan, thine will be done, my Lord and Master, but their bitter core you will still ingest.
So still we dance that macabre dance, mon seigneur.