Behind mirrors, there is nothing but chains. Behind silence, there is consciousness. This music video is a blast against oblivion.
Here is a new earworm based on lyrics I first wrote for myself, as a reminder
to stay focused whenever my matricial programming attempts to overwhelm me. A
mantra hypnotises the mind into believing; these words, however, have only one
purpose: to break the spell of oblivion and shatter mirrors.
As with "Au nom du Père" (In the Name of the Father), the song was generated by AI using my lyrics,
and the video was made by myself using computer-generated images — a
painstaking task, scouring free versions and quickly exhausting their credits.
I know this won't resonate with everyone. That's not the point. But I have
chosen to accompany this text with a couple of endnotes to clarify certain
terms that are too often distorted or reversed, even in so-called ‘Gnostic’
writings.
Âme mnésique
Surfing on the waves of melancholy The Sandman scatters his fables At
the gates of slumber, sleep counsels only The lucid dreamer, who alone
decides To remember before drifting away
His new world is a dungeon A jail that cuddles His firmament, just a
screen A deadly light A new cage, a new mirage Same sirens,
same chains The perpetuation of the abomination Of
despot Yaldabaoth 1
Mnemonic soul2,, be a heretic Reclaim your memory, break the mirrors Avoid the
pitfalls, cross the threshold Silently, beyond belief
Oh oh oh oh Silently, in awareness Oh oh oh
oh
The passing of time erases the traces But not those of
Sophia3, nor the Epinoia4 Etched in the ether, crystallising the transient Into a new
manifested reality Made possible by the invisible seal
Alone in the dark, Escaping the Sheol5, Swift as an arrow through the breach Lightning across the
sky I am sovereign, breaking my chains Away from the Matrix and its
fake world The mark of shame upon the Archons Adonai6 is losing the battle
Mnemonic soul, be a heretic Reclaim your memory, break the
mirrors Avoid the pitfalls, cross the threshold
Silently, beyond belief Oh oh oh oh Silently,
in awareness Oh oh oh oh
Mnemonic soul, be a heretic Reclaim your memory, break the
mirrors Avoid the pitfalls, cross the threshold Silently,
beyond belief Oh oh oh oh Silently, in
awareness Oh oh oh oh
Silently, in awareness…
Endnotes
^Yaldabaoth or
Samael (the blind god) are other names for the Demiurge, the false
creator who believes himself to be the Source of all, when in fact he has
merely fashioned an illusion of material and spiritual worlds in order to
keep entrapped consciousnesses captive for eternity.
^ Contrary to popular belief, the
soul is not the essence of being but its memory bank — a memory accumulated
through ‘experiences,’ tampered with, manipulated, fragmented, and erased
with each incarnation. It is therefore mnemonic by definition. Unlike the
Spirit, its ‘rider’ that remains untouched within the Source but from which
it has been deliberately cut off by the architect of this matrix prison.
^Sophia is the Aeon (spirit
emanated from the Source) who created part of this universe (there are
countless universes) — and most notably the Original Earth, of which the
Matrix is but a pale imitation. The hatred that the Demiurge harbours
towards her is the reason why the feminine principle is so abused in this
world.
^Epinoia (higher thought
in Greek) is a unique and innate imaginative creative force that Sophianic
heirs possess, capable of modulating reality and manifesting tangible
etheric forms, unlike the deviant and sterile matricial imagination.
^Sheol is an ancient Hebrew
word referring to the realm of the dead. It is the ‘common grave of
humanity,’ the pit into which souls sink when they return to the astral
plane after leaving their bodies.
^ Contrary to biblical-spiritual
mystifications, Adonai (Lord in Hebrew) is not a person but a
machine: the great central computer that operates this matrix and draws its
energy from astralised humans who believe in its programme and thus support
its simulation. Neither Adonai nor Archons have creative power: they use
human imagination and divert it to maintain their world.
Klaus Schwab’s AI man Yuval Harari told the virtual Athens Democracy Forum in 2020 that the ‘Covid crisis’ was the moment everything went digital, everything became monitored, and ‘we agreed to be surveilled all the time’. Really? Did you?
Harari said televisions were already watching us and knew how we felt emotionally about what we were watching. He said that emotions are a ‘biological phenomena … a biological pattern in your body’. With this kind of surveillance ‘you watch the big president, a big leader, give a speech on television and the television could be monitoring you and knowing whether you’re angry or not, just by analysing the cues, the biological cues, coming from your body’. The same was the case online and what a great way to monitor loosh1 production. Harari said: ‘I think the big process that’s happening right now in the world is the ability to hack humans to understand deeply what’s happening within you … Having the ability to really monitor people under the skin is the biggest game changer of all.’ What they are hacking is the human transmitter-receiver antenna otherwise known as the body. I highlighted earlier how the five senses decode waveform information into electrical information to be decoded by brain and body into digital holographic information which we experience as the ‘physical’ world. It is interesting, therefore, to see the definition of an antenna as an interface between radio waves and electric currents. An antenna as a transmitter radiates electromagnetic waves (radio waves) and as a receiver turns radio waves into an electrical current. I have been writing for decades that DNA is a receiver-transmitter of information – an antenna. This opens the way to understand the real reason for the ‘Cloud’. It is communicating with the body and hacking into the receiver-transmitter decoding system (the five senses) to further close off an influence on ‘human’ perception of the Divine Spark. DNA is a receiver-transmitter interacting with frequencies that match its range of operation. Fake mRNA jabs are designed to change DNA and its frequencies to connect it with the Cloud which then averts Divine Spark/Infinite influence.
You should listen to your heart, and not the voices in your head.
Mark Groening
5G is the latest electromagnetic frequency band to connect the Cloud with the electrical/electromagnetic network of brain and body and now the replicating nanotechnology infused by the jabs; but always hold the thought that consciousness can override anything when it’s in its pomp and power including the fake vaccine effect on the body. Once again, the body is an energetic field and consciousness can impact upon that field. Perception dictates everything. Do we perceive that the body is more powerful than we are, or that we – consciousness – are the governor? Electromagnetic fields can seriously affect perception and emotion if we allow that and don’t know how the interaction works. Dr Andrija Puharich, an American medical and parapsychological researcher, discovered in the 1950s how frequencies affect perception and change behaviour by changing DNA and its ‘encoder/decoder’ RNA. He found that frequencies of 10.80Hz produce ‘riotous behaviour’ and 6.6Hz makes people depressed. Make no mistake that frequencies are broadcast into areas to manipulate emotion and behaviour. The Cloud, plus the ‘Covid’ jabs, make this possible globally, but consciousness is always the governor if we make it so.
A professor of psychology at Laurentian University in Ontario made a detailed study of electromagnetic field effects on the brain. Michael A. Persinger (1945-2018) described experiments in which even mild, carefully targeted, electromagnetic fields could open the brain to external suggestion and manipulate emotions such as fear and apprehension. He said the brain could be manipulated to make an entire population decide whatever you wish. Persinger said technology already existed to do this years ago through satellites, radio transmitters, and television. Fear could be induced and attached in the perceptions of people to a particular person or group. Ponder on the potential for this of a global Cloud of 5G, 6G and 7G to target fury against a person or group that you seek to demonise. The military are using electromagnetic technology to impact perceptions of the enemy, break their resistance and secure their surrender – and the Cult2 won’t be using this on the population? Dr Charles Morgan is a CIA and military special operations forensic psychiatrist and neuroscientist, and a national security professor at the University of New Haven, Connecticut. He gave a presentation to a West Point Academy military audience in 2018 about research into manipulating the human brain to send and receive sensory information ‘like the Matrix’ and editing DNA for the purpose of mind control. He described how a human brain could take over the minds of rats and cockroaches to dictate their body behaviour and how they can use genetic manipulation to externally control humans – or even kill them: ‘You can engineer a unique [genetic] thing that would only kill one person in the world.’ Morgan said human brains could be connected and that is the foundation of the hive mind I have so long warned about. These are current capabilities, and they are in the hands of lunatics.
I have highlighted in previous books the importance of understanding ‘entrainment’. This is when the dominant frequency vibrates everything in its field to the same frequency. Place three violins together playing the same note and if you introduce a fourth playing a different note its strings will vibrate in line with the others. Technology is clearly reading brain perception as well as implanting it. People have noticed how conversations not conducted via the Internet have led to advertisements appearing the next time they go online which reflect the ‘private’ conversation. This goes further. A friend who rode horses when she was younger was wondering to ‘herself’ in an empty room if she would still have the nerve to ride a horse. She spoke to no one about this. Immediately an advert appeared on her Instagram feed about overcoming the fear of riding horses! When is the last time you even saw such an ad, never mind had it appear moments after you only thought about the subject? On another occasion she thought about buying a toilet brush and a list of adverts for toilet brushes followed. Technology is far more advanced than we are told.
Endnotes
^Loosh is a highly magnetised energy fluid diluted by human emotions (mainly suffering and overexcitement), which the various entities in the astral feed of.
^ The Cult is how David Icke calls the Cabal or occult satanic elite which rules the world.
Original text by David Icke from The Dream (isbn:9781838415334)
While still in the land of Uncle Charley, I suggest we leave the excitement of baseball fields behind for the more subdued atmosphere of modern jazz clubs, formerly known as blues bars, barrel houses or juke joints. The ideal place for restoring our balance, as hinted by the 8 of Clubs this month, and tapping into our inner strength in order to perfect our alignment between material reality and spirit. This card certainly does not encourage passivity; rather, it urges us to take action for a chance to break free from old patterns and seize new opportunities. To step out of our comfort zone and embrace the unknown.
The Blues of the Soul
Before jazz, before rock, before soul music… there was the blues.
A term stemming from the abbreviation of the English idiomatic expression ‘blue devils’, meaning dark thoughts.
Blues music originated from lone, raw and often painful voices, bound to the memory of slavery and soul's survival in a world meant to stifle it. It is the music of the uprooted, born in the cotton fields of the southern states of America, and sung by those no one would listen to. A cry encapsulated within a note. The echo of a lament morphed into a rhythmic wave. A way of exorcising pain so it doesn't consume you.
At the end of the 19th century, it migrated from plantations to big cities like Memphis, Chicago, and New Orleans, where it gave birth to jazz, a freer form of blues that is more instrumental, more technical, and more urban.
Then came soul, rock, funk, rap... As African-American writer and poet James Weldon Johnson wrote, “It is from the blues that the most distinctive feature of all that can be called American music derives.”
Blues Players
But initially, there were no mics, no glam, no studios, no producers. Just a raw voice, a guitar, and pain meant to be transmuted, not toned down. Blues isn't about singing; it's about vibrating that suffering so it can find an outlet. A crack. A break in the loop.
Dudes from Mecca, guys from Garonne
Glassblower blowing into a saxophone
Pretty marquise. Mesrine pretty baroness
Thousands of thousands of thousands millions people
Blues players
We are blues players
Prior to radio broadcasting, music was offered for free. Before it became a market, it was given away. And that was something the matrix couldn't tolerate much longer. So it took the blues... and diluted it. Into soul. Into rock. And 'starified' it.
And so, today, singing about pain is meant to be seen, to sell, to be in the limelight. But no longer to align with spirit.
The stage has become an altar. The microphone, a totem. And the pain set to music, a sonic sacrificial offering to the system.
Which raises the question few artists are willing to ask themselves: is singing about your wounds a form of catharsis, or just another way of feeding the system with loosh — an energy derived from human emotions, the harvesting of which is at the core of this deadly simulation?
Everyone suffers at one time or another, to varying degrees, but suffering is invisible and the system is designed so that we embrace this pain as a token of value and a promise of better things to come. A willing sacrifice for crumbs too dearly paid for.
Blues Sisters
Some voices were too real not to crack the mould.
Bessie Smith, Billie Holiday, Nina Simone... And later, in a rockier or more soulful fashion, Janis Joplin, Amy Winehouse, Aretha Franklin.
If it hadn't been for the blues, I would probably have killed myself.
Janis Joplin
These women were possessed. Carried away. And drained. They were no entertainers, but channels for something greater that the system could not leave untouched.
The voice, when disconnected from Spirit, becomes a discharging channel. And mesmerised audiences applaud... unwittingly witnessing a ritual of bilateral vampirism that sucks everyone dry — except the matrix, which always gets its fill.
Whereas when connected to Spirit, the voice carries a fragment of logos within — the original frequency that makes up worlds. So it is not so much the voice that the matrix fears, but the living word. The logos. And in order to conceal it, it inundates the world with sham sounds — calibrated echoes, so that when the true Word arises, no one can hear it.
Nowadays, we tend to confuse thrills and emotions with vibrations. But logos is not gentle. It cuts deep. It resonates. It doesn't lull the soul to sleep — it rouses it.
Blue Woes
So they are not just artists. They are aerials. Amplifiers. And when the stage is the only outlet left, the overflow always ends up breaking the dam.
That melancholy strain,
That ever haunting refrain
Is like a sweet old sorrow song.
Here comes the very part
That wraps a spell around my heart.
It sets me wild to hear that loving tune again,
The Memphis Blues.
From then on, the matrix just has to set up the ritual. Create ‘stars’ and attract ‘fans’. Build acoustic arenas, temples of performance. And call it ‘sharing emotion’.
But these are no longer offerings. These are inverted devotion.
This is where the well-known commandment from the Old Testament comes in, often quoted but rarely understood: “You shall not make for yourself a carved image, or any likeness...” (Exodus 20:4).
Or another from the Torah: “You shall not turn to idols…” (Leviticus 19:4).
These are actually vibrational decrees issued by the Demiurge, who does not forbid worship — only worshiping outside his matrix. For as long as it remains within the framework of his system, the energy always flows back to him.
Idols are not people. They are diversion structures intended to drive us away from Spirit.
So every time we give our breath away to someone else, whether it's crying on stage or shouting in the pit or from the stalls, we consent to a vibrational transfer. We are feeding a cycle that keeps pushing us further off balance, briefly uplifting us before plunging us into a state of craving.
Sadly, I can no longer sing the blues like I used to. It is the truth of this music that I miss, which tends to prove that you should never lose your heritage.
James Brown
Initially, singing the blues may have been a way of transmuting the induced suffering, thereby rendering the loosh unusable.
Today, with a few exceptions that will never be glorified in the pantheon of astral shooting stars, it has become a means of Auto-Tuning silence so that no one ever hears what could potentially trigger the switch of consciousness on.
And if the lady sings the blues, perhaps it's be because she was tired of the lendlord and wanted her property back.
Exactly twelve years ago today, on Transfiguration Day,
La Pensine Mutine was born, in a genuine surge of inner transformation.
From the Latin transfigurare, meaning “to transform,” transfiguration —
beyond its religious meaning — refers to a change in appearance or nature of
something (or someone), giving it a dazzling, magnificent… glorious quality.
On a supraconscious level (free from the archontic delusion), it has nothing
to do with ascending into matrix bling, but rather with removing the mask of
light to embrace the Real.
And in this artificial world, where suffering is normalised and the Real
remains unknown, that can be frightening. Very frightening. So much so that
we’d rather delude ourselves with interchangeable polarities like Truth vs Lie
— which only deepen our cognitive dissonance.
Because the Real is constant.
It doesn’t lull. It doesn’t soothe. It cuts. It shakes. But above all… it
liberates.
Moving from reality to the Real requires carrying out a process of
symbolisation corrected by an adjusted mind. This will propel the individual
from experimental to creative consciousness.
Iso V. Sinclair
Thus, at the end of a twelve-year cycle, this blog — long used as a sharing
tool — has stepped out of the false light to become a threshold to the
thirteenth undrawn path: the fractal one, the one that leads out of the
grooves of the matrix record that loops endlessly through every layer of the
simulation.
To those still walking with me after my life-changing epiphany (the last turn
of the screw), I am deeply honoured to begin this new chapter with you.
To the others, it was a pleasure to share part of the journey.
Do you know what an earworm is? The technical term is ‘involuntary musical imagery’ (IMI) and refers to those catchy choruses or gimmicks you can't get out of your head, even after hearing them just once. They keep playing on a loop long after the music has stopped, and the most annoying thing is that, oftentimes, we don't even like these tunes.
Two particularly persistent examples come to mind: "Barbie Girl"
and "Sigma Boy". Both featuring lyrics as dull as a dishwater and a numbing beat. Yet, the mere mention of these titles is enough to set them looping in our heads as if they were dormant programs being reactivated. A bit like a jukebox. And that's exactly what it's all about. Advertising, political propaganda, mantras and other forms of indoctrination, all make extensive use of this phenomenon.
To break this repetitive cycle, we must therefore substitute our own words and shift the melody. It is important to know that, in this matrix, music is highly magnetised and acts in a spellbinding manner through human emotions (regardless of their nature), which generates the much-coveted loosh.
That's how the lyrics of this song came about: to break a spell and turn the weapon against its creators by altering the wave through vibration. Kind of hacking the matrix. I then uploaded my words to a music AI and with a prompt, it generated everything else (vocals, instrumentation, atmosphere, etc.). Such AIs may be soulless, but not devoid of resonance.
And I must admit that the result is quite impressive. But what matters most to me is not so much how it sounds, but rather how it makes you feel. What it conveys and stirs up in you. Or does not.
Please, note that this video clip was produced entirely without AI, using only royalty-free images.
These words are intended for those who confuse the voice of the programme with inner guidance. For those who preach light with inverted words, in a spiritual theatre where egos masquerade as prophets.
These lyrics may thus resonate only with those who can see behind the scenes, recognise inversion and dissonance — and look beyond words.
If it speaks to you, then it was meant for you.
Au nom du Père
You dream so hard of gathering
Your flock of strays To herd them
Into your bubble of false sovereignty
Where no one will ever dare Dethrone you
Ah ah ah ah ah ah
Oh oh oh oh oh
Oh oh oh
I will never be one of those Who bow down before you Or your phoney king
Poor astralised stooge,
In your dream, you're all by yourself
All by yourself
Ah ah ah ah ah ah
Oh oh oh oh oh
Oh oh oh
In the name of the Father, but without Spirit, By mystery, not by faith
Ask yourself why... why you aren't king
You cast doubt, you charm them,
Knowing that none of your arguments
Make any sense You think you've cracked The writings and prophecies,
Yet still, you pray
Ah ah ah ah ah ah
Oh oh oh oh oh
Oh oh oh
Friday night messiah
You preach love and hope
In total ignorance Poor spiritual castaway
In your dream, you're all by yourself
All by yourself
Ah ah ah ah ah ah
Oh oh oh oh oh
Oh oh oh
In the name of the Father, but without Spirit, By mystery, not by faith
Ask yourself why... why you can't see
Not totally happy with my gluten-free vegan clafoutis recipe of six years ago, here's a new one, that's both lighter and creamier. Perfect with acid but juicy fruit like the wild variety of mirabelle plums I stumbled upon during a walk just before they had time to rot on the ground.
Ingredients
Serves 4:
- 500 g pitted mirabelle plums
- 350 ml almond milk - 1 tbsp agave syrup - 1 tsp vanilla powder - 1 drop essential oil of bitter almond (optional) - 50 g rice flour - 3 tbsp ground flaxseed - 1 tbsp almond powder
Instructions
Grease a baking dish (or mould) and line the bottom with halved mirabelle plums.
Stir agave syrup into almond milk with vanilla and bitter almond essence.
Mix dry ingredients: flour, flaxseed and almond powder, then pour in liquid mixture, whisking to a smooth batter.
Cover plums with this batter and bake for 40 minutes at 200°C.
NOTE: You may use vanilla extract or a vanilla pod instead. If so, boil milk with the vanilla pod and stir in agave syrup and almond essence once cooled. And of course, you may use any variety of plums, but not also all sorts of fruit such as cherries, redcurrant, peaches, apricots, etc. Most should blend well with the subtle almond flavour.
Fireworks usually have the ability to put time on hold and rekindle the sense
of wonderment we all had as children. Not so long ago, there was something
magical about those colourful starbursts tearing through the sky.
Not anymore. Something has just shifted. Both within and around me.
The noise and thick smoke felt like a targeted attack. I had to retreat inside
to keep from suffocating. Even watching from my window, I couldn't wait for it
to end quickly.
Where I would picture the unseen crowd marvelling at the pyrotechnics
behind the trees, I could only see a deception. An artifice as the name in
French suggests.
Let me remind you that these rockets are made from ordinary improved gunpowder
— the same kind used to kill people in masses, and originally imported from
China to Europe by Marco Polo. They can therefore be regarded as explosives
and may pose serious hazards.
It's not just the actual accidental risks of flying debris and fire, but
mostly the harmful fumes inhaled by spectators — the fallout from which
severely damages ecosystems.
Who cares? Everyone knows it's cars, cigarettes and cow farts that are
destroying the planet. Not nitrates, chlorates, perchlorates, sulphur and
carcinogenic heavy metals such as titanium, barium and strontium — traces of
which were found in nearby waterways after firework displays on Bastille Day.
Not to mention those entertainment bombs are just tens of thousands of euros
(hundreds of thousands in large cities) going up in toxic smoke.
But shhh… Fireworks mean party time. Questioning that is a surefire way to
pass for a killjoy. So let's pass!
What if these annual celebration rituals had a totally different purpose?
And what if the energy of all our Ohs, Ahs and Wows was actually captured,
redirected and used?
There’s even a name for it: loosh.
What about this strong feeling of being instrumentalised by something our mind
can hardly conceive of?
What if what we call joy was, in fact, no more than some elaborate collective
hypnosis?
Have you ever experienced such shraps of reality that make you wonder: "Do my feelings originate from me… or from what I'm expected to feel?"
Should such realisation ever dawn on you, some day, you will certainly
understand why I did not applaud this year. And shall not ever again.
For the sake of carbon footprint concerns, I'm staying in the land of Uncle
Charley (my late great-uncle), swapping my Colt and cowgirl hat for a baseball
bat and cap, and off I hit the plate, ready to attempt my home run. A daunting challenge, I admit, but that is precisely what is suggested by
the 7 of Diamonds this month — on par with the diamond-shaped field and seven
defenders (in addition to the pitcher and catcher) of the opposing team. This
card invites us to take a step back and look beyond appearances. Sometimes,
what may be considered an issue is actually a blessing in disguise. What if it
were an opportunity to make a quantum leap?
The Aces of Base
Well-established in the American landscape for nearly two centuries, baseball is more than just a sport: it is an institution deeply rooted in the culture and history of the country. It is even the Americans' favourite pastime, a tradition passed down from generation to generation. Although, since the 1960s, (American) football has largely taken the lead in the running for the symbolic title of national sport.
For my part, I must admit that my experience lies solely in reading Stephen King's
The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon, where a kid lost in the woods copes with all the terrors that come her way by listening to baseball games on her Walkman (the ancestor of MP3 players). Or that iconic scene from the Twilight movie with Muse's "Supermassive Blackhole" playing in the background, where the vampires play baseball in the midst of a storm.
Another peal of thunder began.
Esme stopped then; apparently, we'd reached the edge of
the field. It looked as if they had formed teams. Edward was far out in left
field, Carlisle stood between the first and second bases, and Alice held the
ball, positioned on the spot that must be the pitcher's mound.
Emmett was swinging an aluminum bat; it whistled almost
untraceably through the air. I waited for him to approach home plate, but then I realized, as he took his
stance, that he was already there — farther from the pitcher's mound than I
would have thought possible. Jasper stood several feet behind him, catching for the other team. Of
course, none of them had gloves. All right," Esme called in a clear voice, which I knew even Edward would
hear, as far out as he was. "Batter up." Alice stood straight, deceptively motionless. Her style seemed to be stealth
rather than an intimidating windup. She held the ball in both hands at her
waist, and then, like the strike of a cobra, her right hand flicked out and
the ball smacked into Jasper's hand. "Was that a strike?" I whispered to Esme. "If they don't hit it, it's a strike," she told me.
Twilight, Stephenie Meyer (2005)
So I did some research to grasp of the basics, which are way more complicated than what Americans call soccer (football in Europe). Do football rules elude you? Wait till I introduce you to baseball rules!
The Four-Corner Game
Two teams of nine players compete against each other. One team attacks (sending one of its players to bat), while the other defends (throwing the ball and trying to eliminate the batters).
The pitcher (defender) throws a ball. The batter (attacker) tries to intercept it by hitting it with a bat.
If he succeeds, he runs to the first base, then the next ones, hoping to return to his starting point — called home plate — to score a point. Meanwhile, the defending team tries to retrieve the ball and get him out by throwing it to a base ahead of him or touching him with it.
The batters take turns one by one, in a fixed order. But as soon as three batters in a row are out, it is the defenders' turn to attack. They switch roles.
Each player keeps their position: the pitcher stays pitcher, the catcher stays catcher. But everyone takes turns batting when their team is on offence.
Baseball is ninety percent mental and the other half is physical.
Yogi Berra, former professional baseball catcher
The battle between the pitcher and the batter is a key moment in every game, where strategy, skill and psychology combine. The design of the mound on which the pitcher stands is also crucial in this one-on-one situation, influencing the game and providing viewers with great thrills.
The pitcher is the cornerstone of any top-level baseball team. Their ability to surprise and eliminate opposing batters is what may lead their team to victory. Pitchers need to assess each batter and choose which pitches to use based on their opponent's strengths and weaknesses.
The Tick-Tock Tactic
A game is usually composed of nine innings, each consisting of two phases: one where a team is batting and one where it is fielding. If the scores are tied at the end (only the number of points or runs scored is counted, not the number of innings won), extra innings are played until one team takes the lead.
Baseball has no game clock. Innings define the pace, following a logical sequence of repeated cycles. Each team plays, waits, then plays again. Over and over again. There is no 'official' pace of play, just innings to be played. Occasionally, some games may seem to last forever, exceeding 4 hours in duration. Meanwhile cricket games – the British bat-and-ball sport baseball originated from – may extend over several consecutive days in a liturgy of suspended time.
But all this comes at a cost. Ultimate tempo masters, pitchers are subjected to extreme physical strain affecting their arms, shoulders to such extent it may take them several days to recover after a single game. Players may grow exhausted, but the loop goes on.
Foul Role Play
Up along the clouds where the eagles roam, Joe cracked that ball to
whine and moan. His buddies all laugh as they trot on in: Joe
DiMaggio's done it again."
The field is called ‘the diamond’, but it is just a 2D projection of the Matrix cube, viewed from a certain angle and run around, one pillar (base) at a time, counter-clockwise. Even when you hit a home run, you're back to square one, the home plate. You may feel like you're making progress, whereas you're merely completing another lap around your cage.
And all the while, the bat keeps swinging and the field keeps wearing you out. The bat is wielded as an instrument of power, a striking force, and a symbol of decision. But on closer inspection, it was primarily designed to strike within the framework, not to break away from it. It is reminiscent of the stick used to break piñatas open and release the treats. And in traditional puppet shows, it is always the same ‘villain’ who gets beaten with a truncheon.
With each turn, roles are switched: one day you pitch, the next you strike. Always on the same matrix field. Same odd field. Same old scenarios. Panem et circenses. Bread and games. Another variant of the chessboard squares. The Matrix continues to alter, recycle, and recombine, but it never creates. It requires our input to do so.
To paraphrase now-defunct French rock band Téléphone, I'd say that we play our lives just like we play baseball. We win and lose, always hoping to score just one more round before the loop resets. Sometimes, you hold the grip then have to throw the bat away after one hit. Sometimes, you lose your grip and it might even cost you an arm and a leg. Oops!
Bats of Burden
Revolutions happen when baseball bats and golf clubs change hands. The exact
dates and litres of blood spilled are matters for historians to argue about.
Anonymous
In the sporting world, same as in the world of the Demiurge, there is this basic idea of hitting that keeps coming back: we hit the ball, we hit the road, we hit records. We beat the band, we beat the odds, we beat time... in excess.
We're also very much on the receiving end of these violent phrases – especially in the French language. Violence – with all the suffering and loosh it creates – appears to be a key part of this predatory world. Even the party is going full swing, as if joy, too, had to pass through the rhythmic prongs of a well-oiled system. And when it gets too obvious, the cards are reshuffled. But the game remains the same.
The fact is, language knows, even if we no longer listen to it. We are bombarded with the same old stuff, we are led down the same old paths, and meanwhile, we carry the burden... where it hurts.
For there is always something to endure. A burden, a rule, a cycle. Some ground to gain, some base to reach. Again. And again.
And when you think you've scored a point... the cycle begins again.
Taking at face value. Taking for granted. Both idiomatic expressions pretty well capture the human paradox that sustains the alternative current of cognitive dissonance.
We want it all, but when we get it for free, we don't want it because free means cheap and has no value.
Whether it's manufactured goods, services, information, entertainment, support, or even time and attention, if it's free and offered without any strings attached, we just shamelessly take it as a given without even saying thanks. Unconsciously, we are led to assume that if something is free, it's because it is unmarketable and therefore of lesser value. It's only a small step from there to suspiciously questioning the motives behind such generosity, and many people readily take that step. And rightly so, since nothing comes for free in this world.
Worse still: not only do some feel entitled to get it all for free, but they also have the nerve to complain, whereas they would be less demanding if they were paying for a low-quality service. Their foolproof argument is: “Nobody is forcing you to do this for free” or “We didn’t ask for it”.
Virtue signalers at their finest. As French screenwriter Michel Audiard would put it... you know the line. And if you don't, it'll cost you 100 quid for a valuable answer!
Ultimately, free stuff is a bit unsettling for it acts as a mirror. It reflects the ease of the taker and the effort of the giver.
In this saturation of everything — for there's also an overabundance of deprivation, poverty, violence, abuse and ‘Evil’, due to the interplay of polarities this matrix world relies on — and in this culture of minimal effort, we have lost the ability to tell the difference between a conscious approach and automatic regurgitation. This is the basis of the art of noise: making authenticity inaudible.
This world reverses everything: it values the superficial, discards authenticity, and questions the motives behind kindness.
Iso V. Sinclair
What is rare is more expensive, and therefore more valuable. But what if something is both rare AND free? It's mind-boggling because we've been conditioned to believe that everything has a cost and that every gift means we owe something in return.
A good friend of mine (you know who you are) recently confided he felt hesitant to share a video I had just released, wanting to make his online presence rare to keep his audience engaged. And he's right: constant posting kills engagement. Too much presence means less impact.
Perhaps we should ask ourselves whether attention itself has become the new currency. And consequently, the end value is more about the audience than the service or information provided... for free.
This extends to availability at large. There are those who are never available, yet take offence when they are no longer invited. And there are the loyal companions whose presence is as self-evident as if set in stone... until the day they are no longer there. And that's when everything falls apart. They're being blamed for having changed. They probably have. Or perhaps they weren't really looked at properly.
Just because you're available doesn't mean you're less important.
Ultimately, it's not so much the gratuitousness that bothers us... but the fact that some people give without asking for anything in return other than being heard and listened to. Truly. As a token of awareness. Not as something owed, but as a chance.
In English, ‘free’ has another meaning besides gratuity. It also stands for freedom. However, that which is free does not fit into any system; it eludes the logic of bartering, debt, accountability... and therefore control.
Unconditional giving does not produce loosh — a form of energy generated by our emotions and harvested by the matrix. It serves no agenda. It is liberating.
Ultimately, this may be the reason why it is met with such distrust.
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.
We're pirates. Not the heart-bleeding Robin Hood types of heroes. We don't
do rescues.
Captain Barbossa, Pirates of the Caribbean
Blimey! After a narrow escape from the mouse trap and a close call with a near
indigestion from cheese holes last month, I am now sailing below the decks
aboard the Hispaniola – or is that the Black Pearl? Either way, there's
betrayal on the cards with that bloody five of spades throwing spanners in the
works. Acting rather as a warning sign before a critical bend on a curving
road or, in this particular case, a coast lined with dangerous reefs. Time for
us to slow down, observe, and most importantly, not to trust indiscriminately.
Let's not forget that in May, that damned dirty player and contingency expert
Uranus is making its final pass over demon star Algol in aggressive Aries. The
five of spades also alerts us to the dangers of empathy and attachment,
calling us to adopt an individualistic approach.
Hoist the Flag!
The dictionary defines a pirate as “an adventurer who roamed the seas to engage in brigandage, attacking
merchant ships”. Nowadays, a pirate is “a person who engages in maritime piracy, a sort of sea robber who plunders
other ships and take away their goods, whatever they may be”.
A distinction should be made between outlawed pirates (from the Latin
pirata, derived from Greek peirates, meaning “one who attempts
fortune, who is enterprising”) and and hired corsairs (from the Latin
cursus, “course”), who were privateers, holding letters of marque
issued by their government to attack enemy ships during wartime – as well as
freebooters or flibusters (from the Dutch vrijbuiter, “one who plunders
freely”) who were generally defectors, adventurers or criminals at large who
had escaped from their country of origin to avoid justice.
Note that freebooters who operated in the Caribbean Sea were sometimes
improperly called buccaneers (after the meat they smoked on a special grill,
known as “buccan”) and also that privateers appointed by a particular country
were considered to be pirates by enemy countries. Corsairs are therefore pirates
from the point of view of third countries.
Know that as far back as ancient times, piracy already existed. Every ancient civilisation with a fleet of ships was familiar with it, from the Phoenicians to the Mycenaeans, including the Romans. And the Vikings. In those days, oceans were regarded as free spaces where the law of the jungle prevailed.
The golden age of piracy was in the 1660s, when the French, English and Dutch would all raid the gold-laden ships of the Spanish Crown. From 1690 onward, new groups began operating in the Indian Ocean. The English Crown would encourage piracy as it brought money to both West Indies and England. However, by 1700 this was no longer the case with trade becoming global. Sometime between 1716 and 1726, a spontaneous pirate movement of several thousand individuals sprang up, but it did not have the support of the ruling classes. The Brits and French cooperated to curb the movement and hung hundreds of pirates.
Oh I’ll tell you a tale of a pirate queen
A she-wolf who reigned the Caribbean Sea
With a pistol-a-ready and a cutlass keen
The villainous, infamous Anne Bonny
Born in Ireland scandalously
Bastard daughter
To a prosperous lawyer
Shunned suitor and society
For the love of a pirate boy
And before some hare-brained port-sided feminists hoist their flag and fire their bullets, let's remind them that among the most famous pirates were three ladies: Maria Lindsey, Mary Read, and Anne Cormac better known as Anne Bonny. Bonny's boarding technique was certainly an inspiration to the screenwriters of Pirates of the Caribbean. With the help of friends, she would turn a stolen old ship into a ghost ship, spraying its sails with fake blood and prominently displaying bloodied dummies on deck. Faced with such ghastly sight, the terrified crews of the merchant ships would flee, abandoning their precious cargo without resistance.
Scuttled Scuttlers
The pirate figure is both fascinating and appealing as it is associated with a quest for absolute freedom. However, from a supraconscious perspective, this archetype is a form of orchestrated rebellion meant to divert the energy of independence-seeking souls into a loop of struggle, loss and failure.
The pirate figure may appear to be opposing the system, yet he is merely re-enacting another version of the same servitude: he is rejecting hierarchy, but is stuck in a constant state of survival; he never questions the rules of the game, he only tries to force his way out; the buried gold is a trivial illusion diverting his attention from the worthier quest of exiting the game.
Like other “likeable rebel” figures (such as Robin Hood, hackers, resistance fighters), the pirate embodies a pointless, alluring yet energy-intensive struggle. The matrix is fond of such patterns as they suck up the energy of souls who want to break free, while ensuring that nothing really changes.
On the other hand, the opposition between pirates and privateers is a perfect illustration of the orchestrated duality, where corsairs are allowed the very thing pirates are hunted down for. States use privateers (who play by the book) and then betray them when they are no longer welcome. This pattern is being repeated everywhere: using pawns and then sacrificing them. The matrix generates artificial conflicts in which each side believes they are the “good guys”, when in reality they are all caught up in the same game.
Dark Heroes of the Astral
Whether clichés make you cringe or smile, they do serve a purpose, for this matrix is based on a contractual programme relying on tacit consent. Hence, any time you accept a thought, a situation, a role or a symbol, it becomes a tacit contract without you even realising it.
So, in the mutilation department, the one-legged pirate is a reminder of the pain and price for breaking out of the system, and conveys the subtle message that rebellion leads to destruction. Just like sacrificed warriors and martyred heroes, pirates can never truly win.
Also, the loss of his creative tool (hand) replaced by a weapon (hook) is a metaphor turning the pirate into a brutal force, devoid of any subtlety - a ‘ doomed warrior’. The rebel figure of the pirate becomes thus a destroyer, but never a builder.
In occult symbolism, many one-eyed or mutilated figures, such as Odin sacrificing his eye, one-eyed Satan, etc., represent partial knowing – a truncated vision of reality. The pirate does not have a complete understanding of the game; his moves are responsive rather than masterly.
There were fifteen of us on the dead man's chest
Yo - ho - ho! and a bottle of rum!
The drink and the devil took the others,
Yo - ho - ho! and a bottle of rum!
Robert Louis Stevenson, Treasure Island
The pervasiveness of rum is by no means trivial. Alcohol (derived from the Arabic al-kuhl, initially meaning “subtle thing” or “essence” with reference to the distilled solution resulting from the magical experiments of Middle Eastern alchemists) alters judgement, drives men away from spirit, and holds them in an impaired state of consciousness. There's a good reason for calling alcohol “spirits” as it astralises and distorts perception. It thus became an infamous instrument for colonisation of indigenous communities all over the world. Chemists use alcohol as an extractive agent to retrieve essences in the production of essential oils or the sterilisation of medical devices. The same applies for the human body where it retrieves the essence of an individual, thus causing fissures in the aura that may be exploited by astral entities.
The faithful parrot perched on the pirate's shoulder represents conditioned memory and mental programming. It mindlessly repeats what it hears in the same way as a human stuck in an unquestioning belief system. He follows the pirate everywhere, thus illustrating the unknowing presence of the automatic patterns governing our decision making. What may pass for wisdom is merely recycling empty words that lack substance. This symbol suggests that even ‘free’ rebels are burdened with unconscious programming that keeps bringing them back into the same loops.
The black flag with the human skull or “death head” (Jolly Roger) is not unlike the symbol of the Skull and Bones secret society associated with power management and control of the masses. In the matrix, death is a programmed illusion to hold souls captive and feed the astral recycling loop. The use of such symbol by pirates may be seen as a hidden knowledge claim or else, as a way to inspire fear and subjugation.
Last but not least, the quest for some buried treasure, which can only be found thanks to a map (often cut into scattered pieces), is a direct metaphor for lost knowing fragmented by the matrix. The buried material wealth is a lure, a diversion from the real quest (vibratory sovereignty). The split map represents the scattered knowing that each individual needs to reconstitute. The pirate is seeking outside what is to be found within, caught up in a never-ending quest. The matrix has fragmented the essence of reality and imposed a series of distractions. The real treasure is not gaining power in the game, but understanding how to stop being a pawn.
Riding the Wave
The pirate archetype is a matrix distraction: a fake sense of freedom redirecting rebellious energies into a pattern of pain and struggle. The matrix loves rebels, as long as they keep on being pawns.
The problem is not the problem. The problem is your attitude to the problem.
Captain Jack Sparrow, Pirates of the Caribbean
The authentic player does not engage in head-on attacks on the system for they know it is an illusion. They don't run away either as they realise the playground cannot be changed. They understand the laws of the matrix and use them and are no slaves to the system. They don't engage in pointless struggles; they find strategic paths. They don't strive for illusory freedom, but for genuine vibratory sovereignty. The real treasure is neither gold, nor power or brutal rebellion. The real treasure is about understanding and harnessing the game.
What if true freedom wasn't about breaking our shackles, but rather about understanding why they are there?
FR
