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.
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.
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?
How ironic that the greatest human fear is dying (fear of the unknown) when we don’t and cannot die.
It is this fear that drives the engine of the ‘health’ industry in all its forms and has turned the doctor into a demi-god.
Oh, doctor, please save me, I don’t want to die!!
I understand that in humanity’s conditioned state. But the very fact that you believe you can die means that you will experience the illusion of it and if you believe that the doctor can make things go right it also means that you accept that things can go wrong.
One polarity creates the other. If people believe in the doctor when he says he will ‘cure’ them, they will also believe in the doctor when he tells them he can’t. They ‘die’ because they believe that is what must happen. They think themselves to death.
After all, the doctor I believe has cured me in the ‘past’ now says nothing can be done.
See the polarity? The belief in the doctor’s ability to heal creates a belief in the doctor when he says he cannot heal.
For this reason, as endless research has shown, when a doctor tells someone they have six months to live that is pretty much how long most of them last. They think themselves to death because of their belief in the doctor.
I would suggest that the key realisation here is not that the doctor can cure or not cure, but that there is nothing to cure and there is no doctor! It is manipulated illusion.
A belief in ‘good’ must, by definition, create the illusion of ‘evil’. How can there be a belief in good if there is not also a belief in evil? Left needs Right in politics for the same reason and the ‘pros’ need the ‘antis’.
Vibration is the realm of illusion and to vibrate you need to create a rhythm, a beat that oscillates between two points, as a pendulum needs to swing between two points or it must be still. How can a pendulum swing if it only has one point?
For every ‘to’ there has to be a ‘fro’ and vice versa. Without the two points there can only be stillness (the Infinite). The Matrix is illusory duality and the division of the One.
Look at the laser beam that has to be divided into two for the holographic pattern to be produced. Thought, too, is illusion. Thinking is not being, just as believing is not knowing.
Our loss of awareness of the One means that we have to recognise everything by differences. We know what is hot because we know what is cold; we know what is loud because we know what is quiet. Without the dualities to compare, everything would just be.
The realm of vibrational illusion depends for its very existence on polarity, duality, and the whole agenda of the Matrix is to maintain the illusion of polarity in all things.
People have said to me that I am a ‘good man’. But I am not ‘good’, I just am. A ‘good man’ is a polarity. Others have said I am a ‘bad man’. But I am not ‘bad’, I just am. A bad man is a polarity that provides the oscillation point to vibrate with the good man. Polarities are Matrix illusions.
Original text by David Icke from Tales from the Time Loop (isbn: 978-0953881048)
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