The Wandering Jew & The Lucky Bamboo: A Fictional Conspiracy Theory
Do you understand the plants are made just like that? Compare them to the ones that were like, painstakingly crafted?
If you knew there was a difference, would you wonder who crafted it, and how, or even why?
Did you know the sandwhich, the olive, the vodka, were all crafted? Of course you did.
But did you know also was the potato, the tulip, the rose, even the honeybee?
That I hate going to the dentist is no mystery. But in some States, particularly in the South, it seems, sedation is an option. Now I hate going to the dentist slightly less than before, as in all my way too long functional memory. On the gas, there is some enlightenment, as you’ll see.
Twice now I’ve been to the dentist since the Plandemic, because I have dental issues since childhood, not to mention dental trauma, from the choking fluoride treatment molds that tormented me every six months for a decade. That I found these treatments horrific is considered a mental weakness on my part. That my mom paid for them from her hard-earned wages, and trusted them, breaks my heart to this day.
Now they’ve required me to sign a checklist that I have no symptoms of the Covid during these last two visits where only the gas, and lovely company of kind women, guard my fragile acquiescence .
At these days they’ve also insisted on taking my temperature via a digital thermometer directed precisely at my 3rd eye.
That is, the pineal gland. Little do they know, I’m sure, the conspiracy theories that surround that teeny-tiny gland. Right behind the directed laser pointed right there, to which they are given a number, as if that is the only signal that instrument is designed to relate. And as if they would know any other reason why this instrument is now being more normalized than the obscene body scanners at the airport.
I hate dentists, so much so that my latest dentist is my heroine. She gets what honest dentist-hate is like. She commends my stoicism in the chair, bless her heart. I honor her sacrificial hours and delicate sensitivity which I recognize as akin to artistry. She really is someone worthy of far more than her title. I like her, and I’m not being even remotely sarcastic. I can hardly imagine what it’s like to be a woman like that.
“Feelings are considered to be internal human structure and architecture. But what you imagine and create are far more important—and the creative process radically and naturally changes feelings in a positive way, as a side effect.” Jon Rappaport
On the gas, I reflect, and tears flow, beyond my knowing, how. They are so kind, they see, they don’t define. Are you ok? Yes, I am, right here, right now, I am ok. And I see how flimsy that is this sedated happy feeling in the here and now.
Are you? Are y’all? Is that enough? Is that ok? Do you load yourself with duty and then pray you’ll sleep and have enough still to spend another day?
Would you have enough pity, prana, love, care, energy, to say . . .
Would you really like to know what it was like for me, in the pit, today?
I did not get the impression s/he did. Bypassing is our only call of fame. From the pedestal the pit cannot be understood. There is no degree of compassion that might pacify the pit.
Because you see, in the pit, your compassion is where I most love to shit.
That you preach how I should feel makes it that much more worse
But you praise and anoint yourselves with kudos and more books
It is an annoying block to enlightenment for those who perpetually misunderstand. And are misunderstood.
“If I do not describe the details of our work it is because we were busied with things which lie beyond speech and which therefore elude the spell that words exert. But everyone will remember how his mind has labored in regions which he cannot portray, whether it were in dreams or in deep thought. It seemed as if he were groping for the right road in labyrinths or sought to unravel the figures among the patterns of an optical illusion. And often he awoke wonderfully strengthened. This is where our best work takes place, and so it seemed to us, too, that in our struggle speech was still inadequate, and that we must penetrate into the depths of the dream if we were to withstand the threat against us.”
The cynicism that regards all hero worship as comical is always shadowed by a sense of physical inferiority.” Occulture: The Unseen Forces That Drive Culture Forward by Carl Abrahamsson
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