This year, the redcurrant bushes were early. Unlike last year, when the weather was so awful that birds ate all the berries before I could get out to pick them. So now I have loads of redcurrants I will have to freeze or eat fresh before they go bad. Since I don't like jam (and sugar in general) and can't find any other suitable recipes to tone down the acidity of redcurrant, I decided to create my own. After my redcurrant crumble, here is a variation of my vegan cheesecake which proved a real delight for both the eyes and mouth.
Ingredients
Serves 8:
Crust
- 88 g almonds - 36 g raisins - 74 g pitted dates
Filling
- 225 g cashews - 400 g redcurrants - 60 g coconut oil - 1 pinch salt - 2 tbsp agave syrup
Topping
- 60 g white chocolate - spare berries
Instructions
Soak dates in hot water for about 10 minutes to soften them up. Drain and process with remaining crust ingredients to a lumpy texture and press onto the bottom of a 18-centimetre diameter spring-form pan. Chill in the freezer while you're making the filling.
Mix all the ingredients for the topping, adding redcurrant progressively while processing to a thick smooth dough. Spread over base, tapping the mould to remove any trapped air bubbles, and then smoothen top with a spatula. Freeze for 1 or 2 more hours, then remove from mould.
Grate chocolate and spread on top of the cake.
Add a few berries on top to decorate and store in the fridge with a lid on top.
NOTE: If you are to use frozen redcurrants, remember to defrost them overnight and keep the juice aside to moisten the dough if necessary. You may also use raspberries, strawberries, blueberries, or blackberries instead of redcurrants. However, you will need to adjust the quantity according to how turns out. If it's not smooth enough, add a little water (or juice) to make the dough creamier. Sprinkle with dark chocolate as it gives the right flavour to accompany blackberries, blueberries or strawberries.
From Latin words atavus ("ancestor") and figura ("specific shape, form, appearance"), an atavofigure is a mental template inherited from our ancestors, often originating from collective memory.
The Supramental Path Is an Individual One and Is to Be Travelled Alone
When the matrix dream is no longer enough, the conscious being opens its eyes and swaps the simulation for reality.
Iso V. Sinclair
The first step to becoming supramental is to recognise that NONE of our thoughts come from us but from the constant interference from the Archons and other astral entities. However, through observation and systematic opposition and dismissal of every non intelligent thought which either causes suffering and/or takes you away from the present moment, you may be able to filter your thoughts and progressively reclaim your mental space until it becomes automatic.
Reality Cannot Be Thought, Only Unreality Can
Reality gives you access to pure knowing whereas truth gives you access to a acquired knowledge. There is a huge difference between both forms. Knowledge belongs to the ego and may get lost during reincarnation cycles. Whereas pure knowing comes from the spirit and will not change over time.
Iso V. Sinclair
The supramental being is relieved from all belief; they're no longer interested in acquiring information but want to know. They don't think therefore they know. They're also careful to avoid polarisation and cultivate emotional neutrality (whether their emotions are positive or negative, which is the principle of polarity), which doesn't mean losing their empathy.
NOTE: In French there are two words to differentiate acquired knowledge (connaissance) from pure knowing (savoir), so I had to use paraphrases.
Ey@el
There are 9 Types of atavofigures.
The Supraconscious being wants to avoid these types of involutive traits at all costs.
Naive people in search of happiness,who are grateful and believe in some kind of external help.
Ordinary people in search of distraction and entertainment in this world.
Heroes who delude themselves into thinking they have a (fictitious) mission
to supposedly make the world a better place.
Mavericks who don't know the rules of the game and generate resistance movements which ultimately strengthen the matrix.
Truth seekers on a perpetual quest, who unknowingly mix truth and lies, falling into the trap of duality and strong astralness.
Dominant people who impose their views and opinions, discrediting whoever doesn't agree with them instead of just ignoring them.
Lovers looking for romance and carnal desire, who are dependent and find it hard to be alone and centric.
Generous caregivers, who, in order to feel better, undertake actions which may look good from the outside, but occultly speaking, hold back the person being helped.
Spiritual people burdened with beliefs and submissive to entities they deem superior to them.
The naive person will have entities making fun of their profound ignorance as happiness is highly volatile.
Whereas the Supra person aspires to peace and well-being, not "happiness".
The ordinary person will realise they have wasted their time and find themselves with nothing.
The hero will see that this world will never change and that all mission is merely a trick.
The maverick will realise that resistance is pointless; that strategic intelligence should take precedence in order to prevail.
The truth seeker will find their quest worthless since they're unable to see reality.
The dominant person will find that they're emotionally driven and that their attitude is actually a front for some vulnerability.
The lover will see their dreams melt away and feel miserable for having focused their attention in the wrong place.
The caregiver will find that generosity is always a facade and pay dearly for what they mistook for altruism.
And the spiritual person will be manipulated by astral entities and put back into a cycle of endless suffering.
Supra beings transcend the limitations of atavofigures by cultivating reflexes that free them from the influence of the Archons and propel them towards higher levels of mental awareness. They are impervious to stimuli from the matrix and shape their reality quantically in alignment with their true self.
They have grown out of polarity and navigate with discernment, integrity, and centredness.
There are certain figures who inspire us profoundly — artists, philosophers, everyday warriors — who give us reason to believe that adversity may be overcome without losing momentum. That one may be ill yet radiant. Worn out yet standing tall.
And when they pass away prematurely, people talk about their ‘courage til the very end’, their ‘life force’ and a love so great it ultimately transcends the individual.
But too much courtesy turns grief into an energy transaction. We smile our tears away and gratefully embrace the pain. We say it is “the price of happiness.” As if it were normal. As if such radiant happiness, enjoyed for decades, could only exist at the cost of some inevitable sacrifice.
And no one ever asks, “Who actually collects the payment?”
We often believe that happiness is free. Or that we are entitled to it. Or that it must be earned through effort, patience and gratitude. But in reality, happiness is fleeting and impermanent. And most importantly, it comes at a price. And often, that price is paid later. Paid dearly. In sorrow. In loss. In regret. In consent.
This is the story of an artist I used to follow in my younger years, whom I will not name. Out of respect, but also because what matters is not WHO but WHAT. Besides, I don't want my approach to be misconstrued, or even construed at all. There is nothing to construe. Just a raw observation. The rest, the construing, is a matter of personal filter that belongs to the eye of the beholder.
This artist was exceptionally kind and considerate, which is quite rare in showbiz. He enjoyed a fairy-tale romance with his wife. The kind of love at first sight that one would only imagine possible in sentimental books or movies. Certainly not in an environment such as his.
And they lived happily ever after and had two children…
For decades, he fought the disease with dignity and optimism. Hope and conviction until the very end. A man who stood tall and believed himself to be invincible. Big Pharma's miracle cure did not work. And this came as a shock to many. And a massive harvest of loosh for the Matrix, for whenever the righteous are victims of injustice, it shatters the false sense of security that our beliefs give us to cope with the uncopable.
What followed was a tidal wave of unconditional love, gratitude, and band-aid clichés: “He's still here with us... He's sending us a sign... He's not really gone.”
But the worst part was reading his widow's statement (a truly admirable woman), explaining how she always had a feeling that it was the price she was prepared to pay for the kind of love they shared. “I miss him truly madly deeply” she says. “ But that’s ok as grief is the price you pay for love.”
Grief is the price you pay for love!
A quote that could be embroidered on a pillow, or etched at the bottom of an urn. But what this quote does not say is who sets the price. And who benefits from the transaction.
And then there are the tales. Those we hear as children. Those that paint such sweet promise as "they lived happily ever after and had many children."
It's cute. It's comforting. But one thing we can't see is the programmed expectation this kind of cliché entails. A mapped-out quest within a framework. And implicitly, a tacit contract that never questions the validity of the script. For everyone has heard it. Because it's part of the story.
And even before the story really begins, another cliché says it all (but hardly anyone pays attention since it's so clichéd): "Until death do us part."
Already, it's a giveaway of what the outcome will be: a planned separation. And when it does happen, we say: "It's normal. It was written."
Of course, we all have a programmed end. But what we are never told is that, in between the promise and the end, a harvest is taking place. And the harvester is not a person. Not even a god nor a system. It's a structure. A matrix. That feeds off the loosh generated by these stories we are being invited to play out and grieve while being grateful that “it could be worse”.
What if it could be better — much better? Would it be heresy? But for whom? And for what?
He plays the harmonica... but he also plays the trigger.
Cheyenne, Once Upon a Time in the West
Lost in the Caribbean, in pursuit of some phantom ship, the heroine is Calamity Eyael. Narrowly escaping the clutches of Captain Barbossa, she finds herself propelled (by the Doc's DeLorean) into her great uncle Charley's native Kansas1, on the trail of the Git, the Mad and the Ugly. She can already hear the bullets hissing on Main Street. Better take cover behind the bar, looks like someone's about to bite the dust! Hardly a surprise with that bloody Six of Diamonds heralding unexpected events and change for this month, and calling for caution when socialising. It's therefore best not to upset any of the trigger-happy thugs out there. Especially since the local sheriff strikes me as quite a coward.
The Wild Side of the West
I don't mean to kill the mood, but let me remind you that a cowboy is just a cow herder who tends cattle on ranches in North America. Right now, it sounds a bit less glamourous! According to the online Bible2, the historic American cowboy of the late 19th century arose from the vaquero, popular in New Mexico in the 16th and 17th century, but differs in that the latter is not a farm worker. In the 19th century, livestock ranches in the West would supply the whole country. Since there was no railway, cowboys were thus in charge of herding cattle across the southern Great Plains. The seasonal cycle of moving livestock from pasture to pasture, which ended up in the 1890's, certainly gave a distorted image of the free, lonesome nomadic cowboy, which is mostly a far cry from reality.
Quite unlike the myth conveyed by literature, comic strips and the silver screen, cowboys were no heroic marksmen who would keep their guns at the ready to defend the weak and the oppressed from the bloodthirsty Redskins.
First of all, the greatest threat to cow herders was neither Indians nor cattle rustlers, but the cattle themselves. At night, the slightest howl of a coyote or rumble in the sky over the Great Plains might scare the herd into an uncontrollable deadly stampede. Locating the runaway livestock would then sometimes take them over a week.
Crossing rivers was another major challenge, involving the risk of drowning for both people and animals. While at other times, the peril would come from the lack of water. Let alone, rabid skunk bites and wolf attacks.
Once I was shot by John Wayne. Yeah, it was towards the end. That one scene's bought me a thousand drinks, Set me up and I'll tell it for you, friend Here's to the cowboys, riders in the whirlwind, Tonight the western stars are shining bright again.
Ultimately, the worst danger wasn't so much the untamed wilderness, but the call of the sirens and demons of ‘civilisation’. The settler towns depicted in western movies actually had a very bad reputation. A journalist visiting Kansas City3, in the 1870's, writes that "after dark, nowhere on civilised earth are such displays of unbridled, shameless debauchery as those found in the dancehalls of border towns".
These are the infamous places, also known as 'Sodoms of the West', where, in a matter of days, lonesome cowboys give in to the short-lived pleasures of urban convenience, gambling away their hard-earned money on poker, prostitutes — and mostly alcohol.
Actually, it's always the same old story. With just a change of scenery. We're going round in circles, but the blind call it 'progress'. Round and round we go until our bodies break.
Clashes at O.K. Car Park
There is no denying that our Western cities are increasingly looking like the Farwest of yesteryear. But not the one portrayed in Lucky Luke cartoons, spaghetti westerns or the Hollywood myth embodied by John Wayne, Gary Cooper, James Stewart and the likes. It's more like a low-cost version of the Cities of Lost Children, often with an immigrant background, apparently uncontrolled but perfectly controllable by the matrix, which feeds mainly on chaos and keeps replaying the same scripts over and over again: urban rodeos, scooter riding ambushes, and score-settling on cracked asphalt.
The wind blows in Arizona, A state in America where Harry hung around. Loony gun-crazed cowboy, Fond of weapons, horses and bingeing, With Smith & Wesson, Colt, Derringer, Winchester
& Remington on his tail, Lonesome and proud, he wanders the lowlands, Riding his horse mate.
The iconic boots are discarded in favour of mofo Nike trainers; junk food restaurants standing for traditional saloons — but the script remains unchanged: edgy, stabby egos, quick to dispense the rough injustice of blind retaliation, are being forced to operate in pitch darkness due to a severe brainpower failure, fumbling their way around in the dim light of the spark plugs of the cars they burn when they're happy (or unhappy), plus a couple of stray bullets as punctuation marks.
It might even sound funny if it were a cartoon from Charlie Hebdo.4. Except it isn't. But the offspring of the demiurgic Adam can get used to a lot. Too many scattered pieces, not enough consciousness to pull them all together. What's the point, anyway? 'Life' is much too short to ever expect to complete the puzzle on time. That's why the matrix favours shorter simulation times and and more frequent recycling, even if it means saturating the souls. In other words, dying young reduces the risk of sudden realisations.
The modern-day urban cowboy only rides his collective ego.
In a lot of places in the United States and certainly even more places around the world, the image of the cowboy has become, for some people, a negative one. The word 'cowboy' implies a strong, stubborn individual whose individualism depends on pulling down other people's individualism.
Viggo Mortensen
He's not lonesome: he travels in packs of preyed-on predators. He poses as loud and unruly, but he's actually a coward of the worst kind — a quiesling unconsciously serving the system, with more control buttons than the dashboard of an airliner.
Except there are so many squares missing on his chessboard, it looks more like a old PacMan (or Minesweeper) on uppers than a game of chess.
I'm a cowboy, On a steel horse I ride. I'm wanted dead or alive.
Wanted dead or alive? Who cares! Not even a raider of the lost identity. Just an extra on the set, who thinks he's the star of the movie — the one on a loop.
Spoiler alert: as long as we believe that chaos is outside, we'll stay in the film. And it's rarely ever us who write the final scene.
Wild Wild West
Who remembers the famous 1960's cult series featuring James West and Artemus Gordon, two secret agents operating in the American West circa 1869-77? Featuring Will Smith, it was resurrected, at the end of the 1990's and modernised into an explosive (and somewhat chaotic) remake, which turned the old-fashioned western into a laboratory for retro-futuristic experimentation. The West became a backdrop for all kinds of technological fantasies and preposterous conspiracies — as if fiction had sensed that this Farwest had never been real, but had already been simulated.
What if that actually was the real 'conspiracy' of the Wild Wild West? A territory already out of reach, populated by myths, overacting cowboys, unlikely machines, and vigilantes with flawless brushing. In short, a mental theatre, ideal for testing narratives of power, control and coded heroism.
Forty seven dead beats Living in a back street.
North, east, west, south, All in the same house,
Sitting in a back room, Waiting for the big boom.
I'm in a bedroom, Waiting for my baby.
She's so mean but I don't care.
I love her eyes and her wild, wild hair.
Dance to the beat that we love best,
Heading for the nineties,
Living in the wild, wild west.
Perhaps the West has never existed other than as a backdrop — a backdrop that the matrix can recycle at will. Even today, it is still being projected onto our cities, our screens and our fantaisies of independence.
Same spiral. Same cast. Different scene. No real change on the western front of the demiurgic cube.
As French actor and screenwriter Jean Yanne might have said, had he survived the TikTok era: "We're all cowboys… except we've had our saddles nicked and we're shooting blanks."
Endnotes
^ It's all true: my great-uncle, born at the end of the 1890's, was really called Charley and did come from Kansas.
^ Philippe Jacquin, Vers l’ouest : un nouveau monde (Westwards: A New World).
^ Charlie Hebdo is a French satirical weekly magazine, featuring cartoons, reports, polemics, and jokes.
^ A cross-referenced cinematographic hint at John Schlesinger's Midnight Cowboy (1969) featuring Jon Voight, and Jean Yanne's Quarter to Two B.C. (1982) featuring Coluche.
Cookie: Formerly, a small baked sweet treat you were pleased to accept. Nowadays, a small hot data file you should vehemently refuse.
Luc Fayard
The world's easiest and quickest recipe for vegan cookies (both gluten and sugar-free) using just two basic ingredients and an infinite variety of flavours and textures to suit all tastes and cravings.
Ingredients
Makes a dozen cookies:
- 2 bananas
- 120 g buckwheat flakes - 60 g chocolate chips - 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon - 1/2 teaspoon vanilla powder - 1
pinch salt
Instructions
Mash bananas and mix with other ingredients.
Divide dough into small heaps ( approx. 1 tablespoon) on a baking tray lined with parchment paper (or a silicone mat), pressing gently with the back of a spoon.
Bake for 12 -15 minutes at 180°C until the cookies are golden brown.
NOTE: You may replace buckwheat with oats; chocolate chips with sultanas; and vanilla with 2 capfuls of rum. Experiment with almonds, walnuts, hazelnuts, etc. and various flavours, and don't hesitate to share your results with us.
"Sometimes you need to speak up for people you don’t necessarily like, even
despise, in order to stop them becoming the key that allows the wolf to
enter your house further down the road."
Hello and welcome to Gareth Icke Tonight. In the UK, this week, Lucy Connolly,
the wife of a former Conservative Party councillor and the mother of young
children, has lost her appeal against the two-and-a-half-year prison sentence
she received... for a tweet! Lucy tweeted in the aftermath of the unspeakable
horrors committed in Southport, where three young girls were murdered, and
many others injured, by a demonic psychopath, at a kid's dance studio.
The fallout of the Southport attack led to riots on the streets of the UK, as
mass unfiltered immigration, and the consecutive government's refusal to do
anything about it, was blamed for the murderous actions of killer, Axel
Rudakubana. Several arrests and absurdly long prison sentences were handed out
in what felt like minutes. One of those sentenced has already taken his life
in prison, by the way.
But Lucy Connolly was perhaps the most high-profiled of those locked up by the
state. Her crime was a social media post that read as follows:
Mass deportations NOW! Set fire to all the effing hotels with all the bastards
inside, for all I care. And while you're at it, take the treacherous government
and politicians with them. I feel physically sick knowing what these families
will have to endure. If that makes me a racist, so be it.
Lucy Connolly
Now, Lucy states she knows what the families will now have to endure, having
lost a child herself, fourteen years ago. She will certainly have more
understanding of the grief than most people.
Now, was it a clever tweet? No.
Was it a nice compassionate and level-headed thing to post? No, of course not.
It was unpleasant. It was ill-thought-out. But if you can sit there and say
you've never said anything unpleasant and ill-thought-out, then I can sit here
with absolute confidence and call you a liar.
It was deleted within three hours and a public apology issued, but no one
wants apologies. They're not worth anything anymore because no one ever
accepts them. The woke left saw to that years ago. And the woke right just,
you know, followed suit.
But the main issue here isn't whether it's a nice thing to say or whether Lucy
is indeed a nice person tweeting out of character. I don't know the lady. She
could be a right nasty piece of work for all I know, but that sort of isn't
the point.
If we're throwing nasty people in prison, the only people left free to walk
the corridors of the Houses of Parliament, the Royal Palaces and, let's have
it right, the Royal Courts of Justice, would be the cleaners!
Two and a half years in prison. Two and a half years away from her family for
a social media post. A child without a mother for two and a half years for a
social media post.
Now, you don't have to like Lucy or her opinions to find this yet another step
on a very short and dangerous ladder towards tyranny.
If you can be imprisoned for tweeting something publicly, how long until you
can be imprisoned for saying something privately or even imprisoned for
thinking something that's deemed inappropriate?
The normalisation of prison for emotion-driven and later retracted words, and
the precedent set by this kind of sentence ‒ and indeed imprisonment in
general for what you write on social media, even if you delete and apologise
for it ‒ has very dark implications for free speech and freedom of expression.
Because it's Lucy Connolly now, but it might be you further down the line,
because no one aligns with the state on everything. You simply don't.
Now, maybe your side is winning currently, which is why a Labour councillor,
that urged for the throats to be cut of those protesting in the wake of the
Southport murders, and was caught on video doing it, still isn't in prison
while Lucy is. But winning sides can change and they can change in a
heartbeat. So be careful what you wish for.
Sometimes,you need to speak up for people you don't necessarily like, even
despise, in order to stop them being the key that allows the wolf to enter
your house further down the road. Now Lucy is far from the only person being
sent to jail for words, in the United Kingdom, and the court's refusal to
reduce her sentence has again led to many accusing the Starmer government of
ruling over a two-tiered justice system.
It's hard to argue with, when the judge who refused Lucy's appeal, Lord
Justice Holroyde – another fellow in a fancy dress and a silly wig – does have
form for reducing sentences. Now he deemed Lucy's appeal to have no arguable
basis. However, he didn't seem to think that when he halved the sentence of a
paedophile, in 2023.
Lord Ahmed of Rotherham, a former Labour peer, was jailed for five years for
trying to rape a young girl and sexually assaulting a boy under 11. Yet his
sentence was halved by the same judge that thinks hurty words are worthy of an
equal sentence to child abuse.
Now the fact it's Lord Ahmed of Rotherham, a grooming gang epicenter, is not
lost on me. So whether you like Lucy or not, you can understand why people are
finding this just a little bit off. Because who's the bigger danger to the
people of Britain? Who would you rather have as a next-door neighbour? Someone
that says bad things? Or someone that does bad things? I know whom I'd
rather not have knocking on my door to borrow a pint of milk.
Many are of the opinion that Lucy's sentence is disproportionate so as to set
an example to others, and there may well be some truth in that. But what if
it's also about achieving the very opposite? What if it's about making people
so angry and disillusioned with the state and the lack of justice that they
take matters into their own hands in the future?
I've said repeatedly that they're more than happy to have people sat at home,
watching their televisions, frightened to say a word or lift a finger. And
they are more than happy to have people on the streets throwing rocks at
coppers because, on one hand, they've already nullified the threat, and on the
other, they can use that violence as an excuse to come down even harder on
dissidents of the state.
We're in chaos season and it's time to be streetwise.
The famous allegory of Plato's cave is a great illustration of the cognitive trap of ignorance, where the individual is unaware of the limitations of their own perception.
This place of ignorance is not just some dark cave, deprieved of light (information), it's an astral dungeon, a deprivation chamber.
In such situation, some people get an acute feeling of epistemic claustrophobia, a lack of freedom in the truest sense of the word.
The resulting mental numbness feeds the soul with empty fables and tidbits of ill-founded spiritual hope.
Plato presents this imprisonment as deadly bondage. Quoting The Odyssey, he claims: “I'd rather be a humble servant on Earth than ruling over the shadows of the dead”.
Which means he would rather be at the bottom end on Original Earth than at the top of this world of illusion designed by the Demiurge.
As Plato points out, trapped in this experimental simulation, the soul experiences sadness beyond words at being unable to understand, achieve or experience anything meaningful in this matrix.
The ultimate horror of ignorance is the helplessness it bestows.
May the science of the mind helps you break the shackles of ignorance.
FR
