The Lady is a Blues Singer

The lady is a Blues singer
Don't be jealous
She's fond of red wine
The lady is a Blues singer
She's got gospel in her voice
And she's a believer

"Mademoiselle chante le blues", Patricia Kaas (1987)

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

"Joueurs de Blues", Michel Jonasz (1981)

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.

"Memphis Blues", W.C. Handy (1914)

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.

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The Last Turn of the Screw

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.

To all, I wish peace and clarity.

With my utmost respect,

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In the Name of the Father (But Without Spirit)

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

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The Beautiful Yellow

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. 

Enjoy!

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Fireworks & Shraps of Reality

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.

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Glory Days

I had a friend, was a big baseball player
Back in high school
He could throw that speedball by you
Make you look like a fool, boy.

"Glory Days", Bruce Springsteen (1982)

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."

Joe DiMaggio Done it Again", Billy Bragg (1999) 

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.

All cards are marked,
All fates will collide.

"Where Were You Hiding When the Storm Broke?", The Alarm (1983)

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.

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The Undervaluation of Unconditional Givers

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.

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