Reclaiming Time (part 3)

On becoming my own Authority

I have been fortunate enough to be able to fashion a life that affords me more freedom than the vast majority of the world’s population. While there was a fair degree of luck in this good fortune, there was also a fair degree of sacrifice, and I believe, a dash of ancestral wisdom.

Could it be because my Sir name is Shepard that I now find myself so comforted sitting among the pups and sheep? I’m not saying one has a destiny that could be decoded so simply as through a name, though I do think the clues to our destiny, individually and collectively, are all around us in every moment.

What it takes to see the clues is the very thing The System works to deny us: Unstructured time.  The System calls this loafing.

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Time to absorb, to reflect, to introspect, to daydream. Time to watch the sheep and the pups.

This is different from what The System does provide in order to replace unstructured time, which is Entertainment.  Which, by its nature, is extremely well-structured.

I find the path the thoughts take in unstructured time is intrinsically connected to creativity, which is a joy in its own right and not necessarily a precursor to productivity.

Where my thoughts go, I imagine, are at once beyond time and space and amalgamation of time and space, co-creating the pathways to the Self.

In the Western world today there is loads of criticism directed at the narcissism of the youth. I believe this is primarily a grammatical and perception issue. Just because the younger generation prefers Selfies and the Internet more than old Westerns and glib conversation does not necessarily make them more narcissistic than previous generations.

I think they are searching for paths to Self that are becoming increasingly more difficult to sense as the social structure becomes increasingly hostile to individuality.

Or, maybe the social structures have always been hostile to individuation, and the youth, generation by generation, continue to claw away at that putrefying foundation.

Maybe, on the inside, with every social Selfie they scream, “I will be seen! My presence here will be recorded in time! I will matter!”  They just can’t figure out how and why they will matter, because we lost that thread several generations ago.

Could it be they sense that time for them is running out? Could it be an act of desperation to record every moment and connect it somehow with the world at large? Could it be that we, of the older generations, in our criticism of their narcissism is a reflection of our own narcissism? Is it our own non-acceptance of a role that told us when we were children that which I heard so often in my own upbringing: “Children are to be seen and not heard.” Are we subtly sensoring them due to our own unprocessed fear?  Are we repeating to them with our criticism, ‘don’t be the tall nail or you’ll get hammered down’? Or my personal favorite: “Don’t be so entitled.”

Who are the black sheep of today’s youth I wonder sometimes as I’m watching the sheep. Maybe that’s where our criticism should be directed. Where have they gone? Have we been so successful as a ‘civilization’ that we have managed to breed out the black sheep?

On becoming my own Authority I’ve realized I have an amazing gift of finding my own teachers when I’m left with my own instincts and unstructured time. This is often thanks to technology, but not always. There is so much knowledge being shared on Youtube that our television hangs nearly useless in the living room most days. I’d bet The System calls most of these at least arrogant, if not narcissistic. How dare they skirt the established hierarchy and create their own channels. How dare they question their social roles, or entice, indeed, provoke me to question mine.  The System calls them just another nutter with a podcast.  A so-called lone wolf or black sheep.

Here is one such ‘teacher of the week’ for me. I hope his narcissism peaks for many videos to come, because he’s got great gifts to share, just as we all do.

Michael Black was introduced to me by two other powerful teachers at Unslaved.com: Michael Tsarion and David Whitehead

https://unslaved.com/episode-47-give-us-solutions-feat-michael-black/

Below in the video The Endgame for the United States, Mr. Black talks about the inevitable MEGACITY of the near future and its myriad challenges according to the Pentagon.

He delves more into that pesky Progress and what it’s doing to the individual and the world. He advises one thing here I am inclined to advise against, which is, leave here if you can.

Defeatism, I suggest, Mr. Black. Don’t undermine us, we just may have the ancestral wisdom and courage to stand and fight. If only we could get the youth to see there’s something here still worth fighting for.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xV45sOakhsI

Reclaiming Time (part 2)

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Me 3rd from left with friends in front of the Prague Astronomical Orloy, 1995

I lived for decades at the command of Time, Inc. That’s how I understand it after nearly a decade now adjusting to the rhythm of nature. Before that I’d lived like most others in the post-industrial world with a calendar that was invented not by nature but by men. As a young student bells sent me scurrying from one room to another along with the rest of my peers.

I didn’t like it even then, didn’t understand it, though I was always curious and loved learning.  But as I had known nothing else, as a university student I thought it a fantastic improvement to be free to walk from building to building based on my watch, free-range and bell-free.

I thought Time, Inc. was ingenious as it got me on the planes and trains and kept me punctual for my various social roles as a student, a teacher, a patient, a shopper, a volunteer, and the various other obligations of ‘she who is participating.’  The clock got me to the concerts on time.

“Get in the game!” was the advice from all directions. I did sometimes question this word, ‘the game.’  Is that what this is?

I have never been a big player of games; I don’t particularly like them.  At one point it occurred to me, so, if this really is a game, I can choose whether or not to play?

So, slowly, little by little, I began to remove myself from the game. Like all games the ones who’ve created the game make the rules. It is only a one who follows the rules who wins the game. You may scoff at this analogy now and say, but there’s so much corruption and crime and it clearly pays, so it’s actually breaking the rules which gets one ahead. If this is what you are thinking, you haven’t yet understood the game. The game is working as it is meant to function.

I figured not only did I not make the rules of the game, I don’t particularly like it and I started to resent all the advice that insisted I continue playing it.  Seems logical enough that you can’t win a game if you don’t like playing it. Or, maybe you can, but then you’d be winning just to win and not because you enjoyed playing. Not really my style.

Notice I have now started five paragraphs with “I.” I do this quite deliberately.

“I” is who I know, not you, not we, not them. To know oneself is not to know all men and this is part of the on-going collectivist brainwashing flooding the culture. We are not all one. We are not all in this together. We are not all created equal. In fact, we should, in my opinion, stop striving for equality altogether. It’s not working.

I admit, I was once one who said such things as this on my first website nearly 20 years ago: “Once we have leveled the playing field in education around the globe communication will flourish and then we can call ourselves One World.”

I had drunk the Kool-Aid. I really believed this then. I was too young and optimistic to understand that ‘leveling the field’ meant leveling it to the least common denominator, not the greatest. I did not understand Globalism at all and thought ‘One World’ sounded pretty awesome and fun.

I was a card-caring member of Time, Inc.

I remember one night on the exquisite Old Town Square in the Czech Republic gazing with a large group of tourists many an evening at the famed Prague Orloj, a working astronomical clock 600 years old. It was one of my favorite spots in the city, a city where I was lucky enough to live before the latest great invasion of mass tourism.

I remember what the Charles Bridge looked like at night in winter with only a handful of locals walking over it.  Back then there was a free puppet show behind a makeshift stand under the bridge where I sat on the ground with a dozen children listening to them laugh, which was making me laugh. That was 1989.  I have photos somewhere in a box that are mostly blurry or dark, sometimes in black and white, because that was the only film I could find there to buy.

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Fast forward a decade, then two, and you can barely get over the bridge and it has become a sort of tourist marketplace. That pesky Progress at work again.

I’m not bitter, though I know I sound that way sometimes. I still have my memories, one of the few states which has remained, at least in part, at least for now, beyond Time, Inc.

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So it was one night, as I said, on the exquisite Old Town Square gazing with a large group of tourists (not quite this large!) waiting for the Apostles on the clock to do their nightly dance, when an English-speaking drunken youth passes between the clock and the upward gazers, his back to the crowd, raises his arms in worship and slurs at the top of his lungs as it begins to chime on the hour, “Oh my God! Oh my God! OHMYGODOHMYGOD!!!!” Falling to his knees theatrically then, to the astonishment and awkward chuckles and eye rolls from the crowd.

I laughed at the time, mostly at the audacity of it. Now I wonder if that sauced joker realized how genius his move actually was. And how memorable.

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Reclaiming Time (part 1)

I turn 49 next week. Nearly half a century here and I have recorded a good bit of my journey. My intention is to stick around a good bit more, most days I feel I’ve surely got another 50 to go.

Maybe no one, or more precisely, a precious few, care to read my records or ramblings. This blog is maybe nothing more than the diaries I’ve written from ages 12-45, only to eventually discard. That is on paper, easy to eliminate, by fire, or compost, or any other number of ways. My online ramblings are permanent, or at least their permanence or lack there of, is out of my control, completely.

It is sometimes like a daily offense, just that fact alone, yet I know I could walk away from it at any moment. It is seeped in a weakness I share with many others.  Monitor yourself vs stop monitoring yourself. Share yourself vs retreat inward. Public vs private space.

I feel I was pushed out of academia largely on issues concerning privacy—my own, and my students. Yet on the other hand, my life is quite the open book, much more than Handy Hubby appreciates, I know. In any case, it’s hard to complain when I’m glad it happened.

On ‘ratemyprofessors.com’ I’d had scathing performance reviews so much so I had to stop looking there after only two visits. That was many years ago and I’ve avoided my ‘public profile’ ever since, but I never lost my teaching jobs until I said, “No, I won’t do that.”

I will not violate my students’ privacy in this way.  I will not become their task-master.  Cheerleader is one thing, drill sergeant is quite another.  I will not step on this slippery slope of the complete surveillance grid, no matter how you try to sell it or push it.  I will not simply follow orders.  I will not accept whatever comes down the pipeline without question.

Indoctrination is not education. Social conditioning should never be the aim of teaching.  That was why I went toward academia in the first place, because I was apparently duped into believing that didn’t happen here. This was not McDonalds. This was not the Army.

Online now I see the world erupting. Academics and scientists dismissed readily as complete frauds.  Hollywood is satanic, the United States is a corporation under maritime law, elite reptilians rule over us all, the moon is a mirage, and the Earth may very well be flat.

And I’m one of the precious few who say, without a hint of mocking, ‘BRING IT ON!”

The weather is being manipulated, I know that for sure. I saw through the staged political-media theater since the Iran-Contra hearings. I lived in Mena, Arkansas and spoke with folks, and that’s all I’m saying here about that. I heard directly, first person, enough to make me understand reality as I had not before.

The weather has been weaponized. Our government was usurped long ago. Now connect those two dots.

There is still a denial in the general public to face the dire facts though they are surrounding us for anyone with the courage to look and discover.

I do not claim to be an authority, I am not, will not and never want to be. Indoctrination was never my intention and never will be.  That my intentions might be misunderstood provokes me to spend a bit of time and words unraveling . . .

I am a steward of this land, that’s what called me here. And for the next few posts I’d like to share what that means to me, for those precious few.

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Naked Sunday and redneck holiday fun!  🙂 🙂

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pensive and painted in pokeberry (summer 2017)

 

Motivational interview of the week, considering it’s a miserable 95 degrees again, after a few unseasonably gorgeous days feeling of fall:

http://www.geoengineeringwatch.org/geoengineering-creating-freeze-fry-extremes/

Life Skills Stolen: A Lesson in Hurricanes

About an hour’s drive south over 50 inches of rain has been recorded.  Here, we had two inches, barely enough to moisten the parched topsoil, not enough to create even a small puddle for the ducks to romp through.  The creek remains low, the pond empty.

Of course Houston is no stranger to floods, or Galveston, or anywhere or anyone who has lived along the Gulf South for any short length of time.  While we lived there we were so fortunate as to experience two so-called “100 year hurricanes” in just three years — during Hurricane Katrina we were living in New Orleans, during Hurricane Ike we were living in Galveston.

I refused to live in the Gulf zone, anywhere, after that.  The folks that remain must really love it there, or be more resilient than I am, or have lives and jobs and loved ones they can’t bare to do without.  I respect their preferences and choices, but I chose that we should get the hell out.

Sometimes a woman has to put her foot down.  Or at least, compromise, with pleas and tears.  No my dear, we cannot move back to Spain, Hubby concluded, but we can move north of Hurricane Zone and south of Tornado Alley.

OK, it’s a deal!  I wonder, maybe more women should be making that sort of deal for the good of their sanity and pocketbooks?  I don’t want to give unsolicited advice, but if you choose to remain in the Gulf, it’s only logical and pragmatic and wise in every way that you are emotionally, financially, spiritually capable of living in dangerous regions.

I had long had a respect for self-reliance, having lived in Eastern Europe, where to be Šikovnyý (handy, skillful)  was taken to an art form.  They didn’t take their Skoda to the mechanic, if they couldn’t fix it, a neighbor could.  They cooked from scratch, they mended clothes, they had gardens and grew vegetables in them usually, not grass.  There was scarcely any packaging, the waste–I remember that as most impressionable of all–there was hardly any waste.

Of course that changed fast as soon as the Soviets left and the new Big Brother took over.  This was progress.  Goods filling the shelves, boxes and cans filling the garbage.  It was as fascinating to watch as it was hard to watch.

It’s amazing how fast life skills can be lost.  Or maybe I should say stolen, because that’s what I really think.  The skills that kept cultures thriving and self-reliant and community-driven are being stolen from right under our noses, and our parents’ and grand-parents’ and now even great grand-parents’ noses. For the U.S. at least, this goes way back.

Commodify everything, even the very air we breath and water we need to survive. You are not a good capitalist unless you are willing to drown cities at will in order to profit nicely and have the added benefit of restructuring at will.

See, what ends up happening in these recurrent disasters is those folks who are not self and/or community reliant, are not independent and are most often not the least bit Šikovnyý get in dire circumstances every few years and the government and their communities and extended family and distant friends and loads of complete strangers feel absolutely compelled to help them out.  Usually through agencies and funds that are syphoning and squandering these do-gooders’ money.  There is not only here what Dr. Phil would surely call “enabling” unhealthy lifestyles, but also in some cases, even a dose of pathological altruism.

I saw after Hurricane Katrina that actually what was happening in New Orleans was a land-grab.  I suspect the same and similar is happening with every weather event, and, to go even further, these events, weather and otherwise, are being manufactured.

If you find this preposterous, incredulous, impossible, you need only spend a few hours at these sites to uncover exactly how this is done and has been done for many decades.

Jim Lee’s Weather Modification History

Dane Wigington’s Geoengineering Watch

I know it sounds odd, but those two hurricanes were perfect impetuses for positive change in our lives.  Hubby never wanted to live in New Orleans.  I never wanted to live in Galveston.  We both fancied the idea of having chickens.

And chickens, being the gateway livestock, led to ducks and turkeys, pigs and sheep, goats and . . .

I no longer send money or volunteer, as I had long done, to anyone affected by a disaster through any organization, especially the government.  The weather modification programs, and therefore the weather chaos, is a problem they are creating, which they want the public to bare the brunt of on the front end through taxes and the back through disaster relief.  It’s a con.

Yes, folks suffer.  I get that and I am feeling for them and sending them prayers.  Mostly my prayers are saying, “If you can’t handle living in an area that is repeatedly a disaster zone, do like me, and put your foot down, and get the hell out of the Gulf for good.”

It’s just not worth it. It’s not going to get better.

 

30 Days Clean

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.

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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.

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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.

Or, maybe Dr. Phil can help me.

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Cheese-making: Science and Sensuality

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 Taste quoted in A Natural History of the Senses by 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

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A few favorite references and a favorite resource:

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The Promiseland Farm

If you want to start somewhere, this is a super easy cheese even a picky American kid would surely like, think Velveeta, only healthy.  http://thepromiselandfarm.com/queso-cheese-spread-dip/

 

No More Fakebook

torinpups2“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.

https://www.corbettreport.com/episode-319-psychographics-101/

And Truthstream Media:

 

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

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There are so many better things to do!