*Poppy Sweet Pea set the club up at UBU, Clicky… /lights up and smokes… I knew the story but never actually got round to reading the book… /flicks ash… Until yesterday…*
*Oh, it’s a great book choice to start with considering current political climes, Clicky…*
*Yeah I know. It’s a bit whacky, butt bear with me and I’ll try to explain…*
‘Napoleon took no interest in Snowball’s committees. He said that the education of the young was more important than anything that could be done for those who were already grown up. It happened that Jessie and Bluebell had both whelped soon after the hay harvest, giving birth between them to nine sturdy puppies. As soon as they were weaned, Napoleon took them away from their mothers, saying that he would make himself responsible for their education. He took them up into a loft which could only be reached by a ladder from the harness-room, and there kept them in such seclusion that the rest of the farm soon forgot their existence.’
*Okay I’m getting to it… /drags… Get arabesque to show, Dear Reader, Clicky…*
*No, the movie… /rolls eyes…*
*An outbreak of flu is used as an excuse in the opening scene and the missing cipher hidden in a sweetie wrapper, labelled 9…*
*The title of Wes’ talk is meant to be sarcastic. Actually a ‘pollock’ is also a fish… /thinks… Wait, this is syncing with the ‘lost joke’ in your recent post, Clicky…*
*Vans with ‘Cubitts’ on the side were very prominent in the movie… /drags…*
*Weird fucking movie, Clicky. Enjoyable but weird… /streams smoke… To think, we only watched it ‘cos of a Twitter convo Cade had with @monkeynutshell shortly beforehand…*
*/flicks ash… A trio from Frankfurt…*
*Some elephant tweets had crossed my twitterfeed that day…*
https://twitter.com/bharuka_nitin/status/1395323893821231108
*Menemosyne is an aspect of the Planetary Animal Mother, Sophia, according to Gnostic teacher John Lamb Lash… /final drag… Goddess of Memory and mother of the 9 Muses…*
*An elephant would be an excellent witness to a crime, Clicky… /stubs butt…*
*Wes’ latest vid… /grins… Talk about the elephant in the room…*
‘Nose of a Lion took no interest in Snowball’s committees. He said that the education of the young was more important than anything that could be done for those who were already grown up. It happened that Jessie and Bluebell had both whelped soon after the hay harvest, giving birth between them to nine sturdy puppies. As soon as they were weaned, Napoleon took them away from their mothers, saying that he would make himself responsible for their education. He took them up into a loft which could only be reached by a ladder from the harness-room, and there kept them in such seclusion that the rest of the farm soon forgot their existence.’
*Sorry for the spoiler, Clicky, butt those 9 puppies became Napoleon’s attack dogs, enforcing his rule over Animal Farm…*
*Yeah, it’s a lot to take in, Clicky…*
*Wrong book, Clicky, although finking about it… /lights up and smokes… I did write my anthology story over the Easter weekend…*
https://twitter.com/RooBeeDoo1/status/1340317178294353920
*/flicks ash… And on mum’s birthday too…*
It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking umpteen…
God paused at the end of the first sentence on the first page of the battered book in her hand.
Umpteen?
Disconcerted yet curious, God checked the cover of the book to make sure that the title and author’s name were correct before continuing to read on.
The Grim Reaper, skull nuzzled deep within the cowl of his robe, silently glided up to the bench closest to the duck pond in Victory Park. The ‘Do Not Use’ warning tape adorning it had deterred everyone from sitting there, but not Death. The Grim Reaper climbed up onto the bench and waited.
On a tree nearby, a coloured poster, too large for the display, had been tacked up. It simply depicted an enormous face, more than a metre wide: the face of a middle-aged man, with tousled, blond hair, baggy eyes and jowly jawline. It was one of those pictures which are designed so that the eyes follow you about when you move. BIG BRO IS WATCHING YOU, the caption beneath it ran.
God snapped the book shut and sighed.
I knew it! Somebody is monkeying about with Nineteen-Eighty-Four. Again!
She called for the fat, smug goose who administered the comings and going in the vast area known as the God Lobby.
Come with me, Brian. We need to make a site visit.
***
Spring was in the air and Victory Park was packed with people exercising in the pale April sunshine. Despite the brightness, the air remained frosty cool from both the transition of the seasons and the earliness of the hour. Death sat on a bench close to the duck pond and watched the hordes walking, running and star jumping in socially distanced formation. All their faces were dutifully masked.
Why are they torturing themselves? Death wondered as he watched a stream of hot breath pour through the sweaty face-mask of a passing jogger. They may as well be carrying a bundle of posies in front of their faces for all the protection those things give. Ah, the Black Death. Now that was a proper pandemic.
Death pulled a slim, black rectangle from the depths of his robe and flipped open the cover to reveal a bright, smooth screen decorated with coloured icons. Following the disastrous crash of the Cosmic Consciousness Neural Net (CCNN) that occurred on Halloween in 2020, God had resolved that an upgrade in tech was very much required, and the PsiPad was born. The Psion organiser, which had been gainfully employed by the Grim Reaper Service up until that point, was finally relegated to the Scrapheap of Obsolescence. There it languished alone; the hourglass having escaped the same fate by presciently forging a long-standing relationship with eggs.
Tapping the screen of the PsiPad with a bony digit, Death opened the PsiCalendar and studied his schedule for the day. He had arrived a little early for his next appointment but didn’t mind waiting. Having existed throughout all of time, Death was not opposed to occasionally killing the bastard.
Bing!
A message flashed up on the screen which simply read ‘Molly’, and although the Grim Reaper shouldn’t be able to feel anything, Death experienced a sense of apprehension and anticipation prickle his bones.
Molly Darling was the pure soul child, whose poorly spelled letter to Santa had inadvertently instigated Armageddon and had caused Death nothing but trouble. Her letter, and her sincere Christmas wish contained within it, to end war, famine and pollution for the benefit of mankind, had fallen into the hands of Satan, and Old Scratch never wasted an opportunity for some devilment. Whether or not he’d had a hand in the CCNN crash that occurred at the same time was as yet unknown. Investigations into the matter were said to be ongoing.
On the whole, Death was against the making and granting of wishes of any kind; however, he’d been manoeuvred into making a wish of his own, with Molly as the beneficiary. He’d been presented with a choice; God always provides a choice: the removal of Molly Darling from life before she could send her letter, thus averting the end of the world, or rectify the matter in some other way. Death’s ethics forbade him from taking the first course of action, so he had plumped for some other way. Death’s wish had been granted by Father Christmas and subsequently Molly Darling had been born with the innate ability to correctly spell.
And that should have been the end of the matter, but for the unintended consequence rider that accompanies every wish granted, one that practically no one considers when making one. In this case, the very act of wishing had inextricably linked Molly to Death and attracted deaths to Molly.
Death scrolled back through the years on the PsiCalendar, counting the number of ‘Molly alerts’ that littered them. By definition, Death was only concerned with the dead, paying scant attention to the living around them. Now, courtesy of the newly issued bit of tremendous tech under his distal phalanges, Death was aware of just how many times his path and Molly’s had crossed during her short life so far. It was sporadic but not inconsiderable.
He found the date of the first Molly alert: 1st January 2013; the day Molly Darling was born. She had arrived in the early hours of the morning as Death was transitioning the soul of one Barry Munroe, a poor unfortunate struck by a speeding taxi, following a night of heavy drinking in celebration of the birth of the new year. The speeding taxi had been delivering a screaming woman to hospital, who was making a rapid delivery of her own on the back seat of the cab.
Death had given no consideration to the wailing bundle of new life at the time – why should he? – but in hindsight, the significance of Molly’s place of birth was not lost on Death, as it was in the back of a taxi on Halloween in 2020 that the savage deletion from existence of his good friends, War, Famine and Pestilence had occurred and Armageddon began. Death had changed Molly’s past to affect mankind’s future, yet he still retained the memory of that terrible night. For Death, Halloween 2020, both with and without that fateful taxi ride, existed at the same time, and within the same space.
It’s like Schrödinger’s Cab, Death mused deeply.
The PsiPad had also revealed to Death what lay behind a strange incident that coincided with one of the Molly Alerts, an incident that had baffled him until now. On 16th July 2016, Death had sat on this same bench, watching swaths of people roam across Victory Park. The insufferably hot weather had done little to deter the excited crowd from hunting virtual monsters augmented with their reality; it was the latest fashion. Instead of face-masks, mobile phones and electronic devices of all kinds covered peoples’ faces, which now caused Death to ponder upon the origin of the phrase ‘Track and Trace’.
On that day, Death had been awaiting the arrival of one Davy Keith, an otherwise healthy lad of 14, except for the undiagnosed hole in his heart and an all-consuming passion for collecting simulated Japanese monsters. Death watched passively as a pudgy toddler rushed along the path toward the bench upon which he sat, a tired looking woman pushing a stroller followed in the child’s wake. The little girl had all the grace of a drunken sailor and Death had assumed her wide milk-tooth grin and incoherent babble was aimed at the sun blazing high in the sky above Death’s head. That was until she tried to hug him.
A thought which had occurred to Death in that moment, on that day had haunted him ever since. Am I a monster?
Now Death knew that child had been Molly Darling and she had seen him. Following the aborted hug, and before her mother had whisked her away, Molly’s hand gestures had been her attempt to communicate with him: ‘Hello. My name is M-O-L-L-Y. I am deaf.’
It’s augmented reality, alright, Death decided with a sigh. He closed the cover on the PsiPad and returned it to the folds of his robe. Not long to wait now.
***
“Keep it up squad. Pump those arms,” the long-legged woman barked, as she strode purposefully among the regimented lines of exercisers performing push-ups beneath her gaze. She was a colossus of female physical perfection: full, round breasts, a washboard stomach and thighs so muscular they looked capable of pulverizing anyone’s head fortunate enough to be caught between them.
Lockdown had been very good for Wanda Warren. Before the arrival of the Rona and the restrictions that ensued, she’d struggled to attract many clients to her fledgling business: Fighting Fit. Whilst it was true that the small number of clients she did have were dedicated to not only her tough methods but also to Wanda herself, she was only a one woman band and the indoor gym in town, with its flashy machines, coffee shop and showers, had attracted many more members.
Now the gym was closed due to the Rona and the only place to exercise was outside. Competitive advantage had shifted firmly in Wanda’s favour, and Fighting Fit scooped up a substantial amount of new devotees. All males desperate to retain their fitness, blow off the excess energy built up from their now enforced sedentary lifestyle, and the outside possibility of being crushed between Wanda Warren’s dangerous thighs.
She caught sight of a familiar figure across the park. “And once you reach a hundred, give me one full circuit of the park. Now move it!” she ordered, before sprinting off in the direction of the duck pond.
“Death?”
“War,” the Grim Reaper replied.
Wanda pulled down her face-mask and sprawled on the bench next to Death. The difference in stature between the two cardinal colleagues was stark: whereas War was long and rangy, the diminutive Grim Reaper was small enough to reach into all the nooks and crannies.
War smiled radiantly. “I thought it was you.”
“I see you’re building up quite an army, dear lady.”
“Pfft. Early days yet.” War punched Death on the arm. “What are you doing here? I haven’t seen you since…” Her brow furrowed as she tried to recall the last time they’d met.
Death turned to his beautiful colleague: in ancient Troy her face had launched a thousand ships; today it could launch a thousand more, all armed to the teeth with nuclear weapons. The last time he’d seen War, however, she’d been ripping Famine and Pestilence apart with carnal ferocity in the back of a London black taxi being driven by Old Scratch. “I am here waiting.”
“Oh, right. Not for any of my lot, I hope,” War inquired hesitantly.
“Possibly.” Death produced the PsiPad from his robes.
“Ooh nice kit. You got an upgrade?” War snatched the PsiPad from Death, opened the PsiCalendar and read the name of Death’s next appointment. “Really? No way!”
Death pulled the PsiPad from War’s grasp. “Yes and very much way.”
War stretched her arms out along the back of the bench and flicked at a stray end of warning tape. “Pesto’s played a fucking blinder with this Rona business, eh? It’s done my little enterprise no end of good.”
Death remained silent; he was far from convinced that Pestilence had any involvement in the disease that had swept the world in the last year. He’d certainly had to deal with a rise in suicidees and murder victims, but pretty much all the usual causes of death had remained relatively stable. Certainly all the deaths solely attributed to the Rona were vanishingly small. “Have you seen Pesto recently?”
“Not since…” Once again War’s furrowed her brow.
“How about Famine?” Death asked.
“AWOL,” War snorted. “Fuck knows where he is. Have you seen how fat these cunts are?”
“Good for business.”
“Indeed, business is booming.”
War stood up and pulled her face-mask back up over the cruel smirk that marred her lips; the first of the Fighting Fit squad would be coming through soon, and as their leader, it was imperative that Wanda uphold standards for the group. “I tell ya, the buggers love being told what to do. And the harsher you are, the more they fucking love it.”
“Until pushed too far.”
“I know! Brilliant, isn’t it? A win-win,” War laughed, briefly lowering her mask to suck air noisily up her quivering nostrils. “Can you smell the resentment and aggression simmering, Death? Itsa gonna be a spicy meat ball!”
“Lacking an olfactory system, War, I am unable to concur with your assessment,” Death replied drily. “But I’ll take your word for it.”
“Ha ha. You do that, short arse,” she smirked, affixing her mask back into place.
Wanda turned her attention to the first of her squad to appear, smacking his backside as he ran by. “Attaboy, Malc. Only a mile to go.” As each member passed they received the same backside slap from Wanda, but her words of encouragement changed with her assessment of their individual performance.
The last straggler stopped and stooped over with hands on knees, gasping for breath.
“What’s up, Jimbo? Don’t you have the heart for it today?” Wanda stood over the bent back of James ‘Jimbo’ Collins and gave Death a double thumbs up sign. “Here, have a sit down, old fella. Take five and then catch up with us once you get your breath back.”
She steered Jimbo toward the bench. Despite his apparent distress, he still managed to give her righteous backside a firm squeeze. Wanda rolled her eyes at Death and saluted before sprinting away to catch up with the rest of her Fighting Fit squad and finish the circuit of Victory Park.
Death ignored Jimbo’s ragged breathing and continued to wait.
***
Jocasta Darling luxuriated in the bright spring sunshine that came as a welcome relief after the unmitigated gloom of winter and lockdown. Not that Jocasta thought lockdown would be ending any time soon, not if the government’s broken promises over the past year were anything to go by. Still it was nice to get out for a walk, and despite the cold, the sunshine was glorious and lifted Jocasta’s spirits for the first time since the start of the year.
Her daughter Molly skipped alongside, occasionally pausing to smell the newly budding flowers or point out the birds traversing the powder blue sky. The pair made their way toward the pond at the heart of Victory Park, where Molly liked to serve breakfast to the ducks each morning. Jocasta just liked to see her daughter happy. Molly had been in and out of hospital since birth with one thing or another, and it broke Jocasta’s heart at what Molly had had to endure. And now her schooling had been disrupted, all because of the Rona, which appeared to ignore kids like a bad parent. Jocasta often wondered just exactly where the blessed government’s priorities actually lay.
Although the park was busy with exercisers, the pond area looked to be empty to Jocasta, except for a jogger sitting slumped over on a bench. As they drew closer, Molly eagerly grabbed the plastic bag from her mother’s hands and pulled out a crust of bread.
“Okay be careful. Don’t fall in,” Jocasta instructed her daughter.
Molly beamed at her mother, flashing an ‘OK’ sign, and made her way to the shady side of the pond where the ducks and swans were congregated, all the while ripping the crust into smaller, bite-sized pieces.
Jocasta wasn’t sure what the government’s guidelines were this week on the usefulness of benches, but this one was still clearly marked as out of bounds. She wondered if she should go and say something to the jogger: it really didn’t pay to attract the attentions of the Rona marshals that now patrolled the park. Even the slightest infraction was pounced upon, and she herself had been lectured several times on the essential need to wear a face-mask, despite both she and Molly holding medical exemptions due to her daughter’s deafness. At her age, Jocasta was finding it hard enough to master a new language, without being hampered by half of it being obscured by face coverings; sign language was so much more than just hand signs. But try telling that to the oiks in uniforms with quotas to fill. At least Jocasta assumed the marshals had quotas to fill; everything today appeared to be run on targets, quotas and guidelines.
Jocasta approached the bench. “Excuse me. Do you know if it’s okay to sit here?”
The jogger looked up at her, giving Jocasta a fixed stare whilst the fabric of his face-mask ballooned in and out with every whooping breath. “What?”
He thinks I’m a Karen, Jocasta thought, shocked at the aggression in his eyes. “No, I’m asking if you know whether we’re permitted to sit on the bench yet. It’s still taped off,” Jocasta explained. “I’d love a sit down too if it’s allowed.”
“Oh… I see,” the jogger replied, as he attempted to control his breathing. “Yes… yes, I think so… since the start of the week… I’m sure of it.”
Jocasta smiled at the jogger; her smile was as bright as the morning but much warmer. “That is good news. I wonder why the council haven’t removed the tape yet.”
“They’ll get… around to it… eventually.”
Still, the forbidding tape unnerved Jocasta and she hesitated to sit down. “I’m with my daughter Molly. She’s over there feeding the ducks.”
The jogger nodded without removing his gaze from the floor, as he focused on this laboured breathing.
“Are you feeling alright?” Jocasta asked anxiously.
“Fine… thank you,” the jogger replied. “Over-exertion… I’ll be okay…”
Jocasta didn’t think the man looked okay at all. Apart from his breathing, he was sweating profusely and massaging his left arm. From what she could see of his face and neck, the jogger was coloured puce, and Jocasta was certain that wasn’t a good sign for a man his age. “You know it might help if you remove your mask,” she tentatively suggested.
The jogger gave Jocasta another fixed stare, but the aggression had gone from his eyes. He reached up with his right hand and unhooked the mask from his ears. “Yes, you’re probably right,” he said, sucking in a great gulp of air.
Jocasta recognised her local MP immediately but didn’t acknowledge that she knew who James Collins was. Although she had never once voted for him, he’d been her representative in Parliament for what seemed like forever. He’d also been very vocal on the importance of lockdowns, mask-wearing and, now, mandatory vaccinations. That was something else Jocasta disagreed with him over, but if James Collins was using the bench, then she felt sure it was okay for her to use it too.
Jocasta felt an icy blast at her back as she lowered herself onto the bench seat, at the farthest end from where her Member of Parliament sat. “Gosh, that feels very cold,” she said with a shiver. She felt the cold settle into her but, strangely, it did not feel unpleasant.
Fishing into her handbag, she pulled out a covered ashtray, which she placed on the arm rest of the bench, before lighting a cigarette. She dragged deeply and let out a satisfying whoosh of smoke, blowing it in the direction away from the bench. Jocasta had really missed not being able to sit down and smoke outside, and felt particularly aggrieved at the ban on sitting in public. For the longest time, outside had been the only place the public were allowed to smoke, and now she was expected to stand up to do it.
“I say… Could you put that out?” James Collins asked gruffly and gripped his left arm tighter. “Having trouble breathing… here.”
The sudden icy blast Jocasta had felt at sitting down now migrated to her eyes. She turned both barrels on her MP.
“No,” she stated, flatly.
“That’s… not very courteous…”
Jocasta took another puff of her cigarette and tapped the loose ash into the the ashtray. Again, she blew the smoke away from the bench. “We are appropriately socially distanced, are we not? I am not blowing smoke in your direction and there is no law against smoking outside.”
James Collins started coughing and waving his hand limply in front of his nose. Fat droplets of sweat poured from his grimacing face. “Can’t you see I’m… in trouble?”
“Yes you are.” Jocasta wasn’t sure what had come over her, but she felt very certain that the words coming out of her mouth were being said with the confidence of another’s voice. “You, James Collins MP, are a sell out. Not only are you a liar, a lecher and a rubber-stamp for oppression, but you’ve caused dis-ease, and I am sorry to tell you, but you will be going to hell.”
Jocasta looked over at Molly busily feeding the noisy ducks and waved. Molly waved back, tilting her head to one side with a curious look on her face. ‘Having fun?’ Jocasta signed to her daughter.
Molly nodded vigorously and signed back, ‘There’s a goose and he’s eating all the bread. Come and see.’
Jocasta chipped the end of her cigarette off in the ashtray and returned both to her handbag. She stood up, squared her shoulders, giving her MP a final withering stare. “Good-bye.”
She walked away, back along to the path to join Molly, leaving James Collins with a look of abject terror on this face.
Bing!
“Hello, Jimbo,” Death said, pulling the PsiPad from the folds of his robe.
***
“So this is Hell?” Jimbo Collins asked, as Death guided him into the vaulted expanse of the God Lobby and placed him at the end of a queue of souls. Like Jimbo, they were all dressed in white and wore face-masks. “Looks like Heaven to me.”
“For some it is both,” Death replied. “Just follow the white line. You’ll get there eventually.”
The queue shuffled forwards, taking Jimbo along with it.
Death took the express elevator up to the Office. From there he could look across the vastness of the God Lobby, and see just how long the queue he’d placed Jimbo Collins in was. It snaked back and forth, up and down and crossed itself in numerous places.
Looks like a commercial for toilet paper, does it not, Big D? All that’s missing is a great, big, playful puppy.
Death turned to the voice of God whispering over his shoulder and bowed. “It’s certainly the most appropriate place to deposit little shits, Ma’am.”
God tittered; she did appreciate Death’s sense of humour.
“I take it you were there,” Death said.
How did you know?
“Molly’s ‘Come and see’ was a dead giveaway. That and Brian’s disguise. He put no effort into it at all.”
On the reception desk Brian, who was forever eavesdropping, ruffled his feathers and hissed.
Yes, we were there. The situation looks grim.
“Indeed it does.”
God moved away from the balcony overlooking the God Lobby. Death glided along behind at a respectful distance.
“Ma’am, I’m worried about the disappearance of Famine and Pestilence. I can’t find any trace of them since…”
Halloween? Yes, it is concerning.
“War’s nose is never wrong. Without Famine and Pesto to provide balance, I fear for the future of humanity.”
Then you must find them, Big D.
“Me?” Death felt a sense of déjà vu; he’d been in this position before.
Of course. You find everyone. Eventually.
God smiled at Death and her smile was a bright as an April morning.
*You fink I should feature Famine in the next one, Clicky? …/stubs butt… Maybe…*
*I don’t see a dog either, Clicky…*
*/sniffs… Suit yourself…*
*Or if Chauvin’s found guilty and not hung, drawn and quartered, Clicky… /lights up and smokes… We are in a fourth turning, after all…*
*Ha. I see what you did there…*
… CAN … YOU … READ …
ifknotwineought
Question is, who do they belong to?
The immediate thought is likely “her” because she is an adult and they appear to be on the adult-size type scalar plane. But there’s a disconnect there, for obvious reasons. Doesn’t make sense that they belong to either, but perhaps one makes more sense than the other.
No, that doesn't make sense either.
After that it kinda more becomes…what, are they. Then it kinda sinks in. So…where is your head? Or better yet, where was your head upon first encounter.
Now that we’ve got everything in both a chronological and logical order, where is your head now? I’d bet, you’re now wondering if Cade, the meek and timid Okie from Texas, is messing with your head.
Nope.
As usual, just encountered a certain something completely by chance on my travels. I’ve actually already encountered quite a few certain somethings on my travels this Friday morning. Stuff that made me think.
Wanna come along for a bit and see what else I’ve seen?
What I have not seen, is scientists. That’s right, all through this lockdown and pandemic or whatever, I have not seen scientists rattling off about how great the actions taken by government(s) are, and now that we are into the vaccination stage, I’ve not seen popular and well known scientists all over the media blabbing about what you the uneducated and unwashed masses should do.
I see Anthony Fauci, and I see Neil deGrasse Tyson, but that's about it.
Are they holding the rest in reserve in case the front lines get shot down and they need an alternate? Probably. Anyway, lets go search Google for some of the more well knows scientific mouthpieces and see what they are up to. I’m just gonna go by names as they pop into my own head, starting with Lawrence Krauss.
Rut roh. Old news, but I guess that kinda explains that one. But wait…what’s this? Krauss’ name gets a mention here…
You ever notice that in horror movies, and especially supernatural horror and/or monster movies, no one ever believes in the entity in question, be it a ghost or god or monster or creature or alien or whatever weird entity…that is, they don’t believe, until the fucker shows up. Yeah they’ve heard this thing exists, they figure its legend, so they get the bright idea to go looking for it, and yep, sure as shit it or they or whatever…
shows up.
Just wondering if all these acts of creating disbelief could in fact be engines driving a helluva lot of people right onto the pathways that will firmly put them in believers category. Getting them in line for some face-time with the Almighty, or at a minimum maybe one of their agents or some other flunky. And the best part is, that only a few lambs need to be sacrificed so that the rest of the population is kept informed that this mystical something is indeed still around, and not a good idea to fuck with it nor seek it.
I've gotten off topic.
Church numbers falling during a global pandemic and global lockdown? NO WAI!!! Let’s take a peek at Richard Dawkins and see where he comes up in the headlines.
Well fuck…that ain’t nCoV-2019 related…is it?
I cannot read that article because the website gives me a popup forcing me to accept their cookie policy before being able to read, and I refuse to accept any cookie policy, so yeah, I cannot read that. Prolly just gonna be a rehash of the “this has happened before, it will happen again” modality.
On a related note, and whilst we are thinking weapons and weaponization, lemme pass this along…
Yeah, doesn’t matter what it is nor what it does, everything from Tide-Pods to telekinesis can and will be weaponized. Let’s move on to someone out on the fringe, Seth Shostak.
Nothing much recent from Seth based upon a Google News search for his name. Perhaps I should add “covid” to the mix and see what that gives me.
Oh yeah, I forgot about that bit. Another distraction in the hunt for scientists who are being mouthpieces for the establishment. Lets try Michio Kaku.
Meh. Looks like he’s got too much going on with his TV show and new book to be worried about COVID. Let’s check out Brian Cox and see what he might be saying about COVID.
Hrm…I guess maybe the core is indeed holding up the status quo whilst others are pushed forward to talk about this current pandemic. Not too smart to put all your eggs in one basket. Let us check one last dude whilst you sit there all befuddled as to why I’ve not singled out any female scientists that you’ve likely never heard of. The last dude we shall check is Jim Al-Khalili.
At the bottom of that last article, The Guardian informs me that I’ve read 6 articles in the last year.
I'm being watched.
Question now is, sometime in the future, am I gonna be tested on how well I absorbed the information from those 6 Guardian articles that I (according to them) allegedly read?
Here’s the real question, cupcake…
A: Where are all the rock-star physicians at?
Where are all the rock star medical doctors, virologists, chemists, botanists, biologists, anthropologists, historians? Wear dey at, huh? My guess is gonna be that those who likely could be (or should be) speaking out have signed so goddamn many NDAs with so goddamn many interests that they can’t even comment on the weather without getting fired, sued and/or suicided, let alone comment on this SARS-CoV-2 virus thingie. Hundreds of trillions of dollars hang in the balance here. Don’t need some poison pill fucking up the works.
Here’s an interesting one for you to chew on…
…or at least, it’s an interesting thought to me. Wanna hear why?
OK, fine...you've talked me into it.
Supposedly, the only unforgivable sin (according to The Bible) is rejection of the Holy Spirit. One would think this means that when the Holy Spirit shows up, you do what it instructs you to do…no questions asked. Thing is tho, there appear to be all kinds of entities floating around out there in the realms of what I call “Else”. The ether or the spiritual realms or whatever. Anything that isn’t some tangible and understandable something, is “Else”, and it is supposedly brimming with entities and interests of all kinds.
But here, in our time and times, is where things get even more slippery. We, live in times when “psychic communication is almost commonplace. Satellite, radio, telephone, television, microwave/cellular, cable, Internet, cinemas, books, newspapers, magazines, flyers, mail, signs, billboards, bumper stickers, t-shirts, product packaging, not to mention all kinds of crazy stuff being worked on, in secret, by interests of all kinds, that you/I haven’t a clue about and likely never will. Hell, even things as “simple” as electricity, running water, gas and availability of products/supplies at local markets and retailers can be considered communication pathways because you are transmitted information when a something that was previously available is no longer available. All kinds of ways for ideas and information to get into your head, all kinds of ways for ideas to get into you, and ultimately these things will effect your spirit. They will affect your thinking and your feeling.
A question that I personally have wrestled with is “how would you know?” Meaning…if some spirit or entity whatever, showed up (in…person?*), and started communicating directly with me, how in the hell am I to know that they are who they say they are? How am I in any way equipped to deal with what is happening and why? I can tell you what society would say…
Society: Dude, you’re fucking crazy!
Simple. You’ve had a psychotic break, your brain is malfunctioning, and it’s just making things up.
Now, I mention this because, were I to encounter some less-than-standard type of entity, I am pretty much on my own. I cannot rely on anyone but myself. I cannot lean on anyone. I cannot tell anyone, and I mean NO ONE…because if I do, I’m instantly gonna be branded a loon, and things in my life are about to get even more complex because I’m likely gonna be thrown into “the system”. And we all know both how great that system is, and what we think of those that wind up in it. You are now branded a crazy, for life…marked. Everything you knew, is gone. And we don’t want that now do we?
Yep, yer on yer own.
Might wanna hit the public library and/or book stores and be discrete about seeking help. Just, keep in mind that agencies of all kinds from all nations are watching those publications and making note of who is reading what. Heh, heh, heh…we live in interesting times in that all kinds of folks are having all kinds of vague encounters with those seeking information, eh?
So now, we’ve decided that maybe its best to go dry. We’ll work with what we have in our own personal databanks.
A: Rut roh...
If you’ve any education of any kind, you likely know that predators seek the weak and the sick. The vulnerable and the clueless. Those who aren’t paying attention or have made some kind of mistake.
OH THE HUMANITY!!! I am completely and totally fucked!!! I’m under some kind of psychic and/or spiritual attack because I’m weak or sick or stupid or just plain ol’ wasn’t paying attention! Maybe all that!!! Wait…sanctuary. That’s what I need…I need some kind of sanctuary!!!
CHURCH!!! Get your ass to church!!! But wait…which one?!?!!?? Churches are made up of warring factions who all think that they, and only they, have all the answers!!! And what about religions?!?? Holy shit are there a shitton of them. Which one actually does have the answers I seek?!?!?!?
I’m desperate here. I don’t have time for all that. Some kind of creature from another dimension is pestering the fuck out of me and putting all kinds of weird ideas into my head, and I need help RIGHT FUCKING NOW!!!!
W: What are you on about?
Cade: Just taking another trip down the evaluation highway.
W: Don’t you mean, reevaluation highway?
Cade: Same thing. Same roadway. Just because I’ve been down the same road before, doesn’t mean the road itself is the same.
W: Trying to be clever?
Cade: No. Just pointing out that each and every pass down “the same road” isn’t the same. No telling what you might see.
W: Like re-watching a movie or rereading a book.
Cade: Or similar.
W: Similar, not same.
Cade: Or maybe even same but not similar.
W: Or maybe not similar, not same.
Cade: Could be. Books get revised, movies get edited, and same roadways change.
W: In effect making them neither similar nor same.
Cade: Correct, I too have likely changed. My environment has potentially changed.
W: New 65 inch ultra high definition television, new Blu-ray player, new ultimate-supreme collectors edition of the movie on Blu-ray Disc, 7.2 wireless surround sound audio system, new couch…
Cade: New girlfriend. New start. New, new, new. So, yeah, not similar not same.
W: Your roadway has changed. But it’s still the same movie.
Cade: Sorta. And yet not at all the same.
Kinda weird to think about the concept of “a slow poisoning of the mind”, and especially as it relates to learning and growing. In this instance, someone is putting forward that to consume anything non-scriptural is to poison oneself. In effect, one could argue that this someone is making the case for there to be but a single publication in existence…The Holy Bible. I already have a question regarding that…
A: ???
I dunno how many versions of The Holy Bible there are, but there are a bunch. Getting the wrong one, or listening to someone teach from the wrong one, could doom your soul to eternal damnation. I wonder if pastors get kickbacks from the publisher for recommending their version.
Here’s a really weird kink in that paradigm from above.
Quite a few published works there, and I didn’t have to go very far at all to find some stuff that wanders off into conjecture and opinion.
What I’m wondering about here is when one makes a distinction between that which is church policy, and that which is “scriptural”, and even that which is personal opinion. What about that which is social and those things that are financial? “Pilgrim’s Progress” features heavily in that writing, and I dunno if I personally would consider anything in either of these works as “scriptural” just because a Bible verse is quoted here and there. But here’s where things get really funky. The Bible contains stories of all kinds. Historical events, tales, parables, all kinds of adventures and weird happenings.
A: I missed the show.
I was born at the wrong time. I did not walk with the prophets, hence, I guess I gotta just do my best to relive their bullshit in my own time(s) instead of living my own life and finding my own way in my own times as they did. Gotta establish my own walk with God. Find my own feet.
I'm stumbling like crazy here. This is fucking nuts to think about.
They, did not have a Bible. How in the fuck did they make it through living their lives “according to scripture” in those times when there was no scripture? Certainly not the scripture we have today.
Ah yes…reliance upon the priests. If you want your scripture, and you wanna know what is/is not scriptural, gotta go to the priests. They’re the ones with the books and the backing of the church(es).
Say, um…
…is that a volcano in the background I see? And is that tea, and doesn’t tea contain caffeine? I bet that photographer went through hell setting up that shot. Gotta be at the right spot, at the right time of day, and everything in your life has to run smoothly in order for that to happen. Gotta have the correct permissions to be there, gotta have the right weather, and you gotta have the right staff, gotta have the right equipment. You did remember to bring everything, right? Did I? I can’t remember.
Coffee...you need coffee. Strong coffee and lots of it.
So yeah…calm. That calm. Calm like the calm depicted in the photo. Fuck yes my mind can be that motherfucking calm! What the hell are you on about regarding calm minds looking like a caffeine factory next to a goddamn volcano?!?!?!?
btw…i 4 got to mentions
Oh…
Wait………..
…we interrupt this previously joyous occasion for the M-F/9-5 working public with a special news bulletin.
Please stand by….
I wonder what the percentage of people who work Monday thru Friday and 9 AM to 5 PM actually is. Like, compared to those who work other shifts/other days. Hell, some of us are on the clock 24 hours a day, 365/366 days a year. And to think even further on the subject, the phrase “9 to 5” implies permanent, full-time employment. No afternoon shifts, no swing shifts, no graveyard shifts, is not part-time work, is not temporary work, is not seasonal work, is not occasional nor as/when needed work, no weekends, no overtime, no split days nor split days off, no rotating days, no rotating hours, off work on all holidays, just straight up 40-hour work week, 8 hours per day Monday thru Friday from 9 AM to 5 PM with likely a paid lunch and possibly two paid breaks of 1 morning and 1 afternoon, off work on Saturdays and Sundays, and a minimum of two weeks of paid vacation every year. What percentage of people in the US of A have a job like that anymore? Ya think anyone else in the world is thinking about stuff like this? If so, ya think maybe Google might could point us to some information?
Less than 2%? Answer #2 says they’ve run some numbers based upon US Census data and come up with 1.9% of Americans work 9 to 5 based upon a start-time window between 8:45 AM and 9:09 AM? Jesus that’s fucking horrifying sounding. Tell me we aren’t living in a time when the unions are dead.
Answer #5 says that 31% of Americans work a 40 hour work week, but that’s not really indicative as to when they are working those 40 hours. Working 9-5 is a helluva long way from working from 3 PM to 11 PM or working 10 PM one day to 6 AM the next day. Shifts like that don’t provide an individual with much time for doing much of anything except either preparing for, or recovering from, work. No telling what days you might have off either, and for those poor folks working the graveyard shifts, having off on a certain day doesn’t always mean you’ll actually be off on that day because YOUR days start at night.
I found that out the hard way when I worked a midnight shift for 4 months. I was off on Fridays and Saturdays, sure…but my Sunday started at 11 PM on Saturday night. In effect, I wasn’t off on Saturdays at all because I had to be rested and ready for work by 11 PM Saturday night. I basically got 1 day off per week…Friday. The rest of the time was preparing for and coping with the rigors of working all night, trying like hell to sleep during the day, and also trying to stay well, healthy and not die in the process.
(and keep my fucking job/do it well)
Coincidence…
…no coincidence, they say. Lemme do a little copy/paste for anyone too lazy to go read the article.
Research shows the timing of these incidents isn’t likely a coincidence, Slutkin said, since the more people see violence and take it in as “normal” the more likely they are to commit violence themselves. “We know historically there is a strong copycat phenomenon with high-profile mass shootings,” Dr. Jonathan M. Metzl, Director of the Center for Medicine, Health, and Society at Vanderbilt University, Nashville, told Insider. “And so when there’s one in the news it tends to spur a number of copycat events, so people feel a contagion effect. One leads to another, leads to another.” “This is a lot of people who are on edge having the means to do something and seeing that other people are doing it,” he added.
Kinda like rushing to get “vaccines”. Or wearing masks. Or shaming others for not being part of the herd and going with the flow. Or joining TikTok or some other social media something. Or starting your own podcast. Or buying a hot stock. Or getting some hot new merch. Or watching some hot new show. Or going to a rally or protest for some hip new activist something. Or jumping on any and every new trend that may just lead to you gaining some notoriety or standing out in some way so one can feel good about themselves. Hell, is there anything at all on this planet, in our time(s), that is not driven by some kind of copycat mentality? Speaking of copycats…
I’m being a copycat right now by commenting on this. Being trendy. Being current. Being hip.
Cats coping with...the unknown?
Making the unknown known is…tricky. There’s a permanence to everything we do. Everything goes on your permanent record. Gotta make each and every decision count, and most importantly, we need feedback. So considering that familial, friends and work/professional peers type of support is gonna be difficult and perhaps even impossible in obtaining, how does one obtain feedback regarding the decisions that we make? Is it possible that sometimes you just gotta go public? Lemme relate a bit here for those who might be a shade lost as to what I mean.
Speaking of feedback, you know that “customer satisfaction” card that is in the packaging when you buy some new something? But the thing is, they usually want you to fill the survey out and return it within 15 to 30 days of purchase. You just bought the fucking thing, it probably works out of the box, so of course those who take the time to fill it out are likely gonna give the product some high marks.
A: Heh. Heh heh. Heh heh heh ha hee haw har har har and a tee hee hee too.
They want feedback that is gonna give them ways to get new suckers to make initial purchases, not information that is gonna create loyal customers who come back again and again because your products are great. The market(s) for most products are as such that customers don’t have much of a choice in the first place, and retailers are gonna make those choices even more thin. If you want a certain item, and the company can stay in business, they’re likely to get you again and again even if they are pumping out complete shit.
When you have a problem, to whom do you turn?
When you have a problem, why do you have to turn to anyone?
Who the fuck told you that, when you have a problem, you must turn to others?
If a carnivorous insect takes a shit on my tomato, my tomato is no longer considered vegan. Wait…what in the hell am I even talking about…insects are now vegan. It’s all about the protein…
who gives a fuck where it comes from.
I guess someone got the message that any, and I man ANY, processed food, is likely to contain insect matter of some kind. Pretty sure there are even regulations which specifically allow for a certain percentage of processed foods to contain insect and other unexpected/unintended matter. Sure, you can try and be super-accurate screening out the beetle poop, dead ants, moth eggs, mouse whiskers and pheasant feathers, but you cannot get it all. Exceptions must be made, otherwise, commerce suffers. If commerce suffers, nothing is produced, money does not change hands, people go hungry, illnesses crop up, and wars of all kinds loom large in the wings.
Are you really gonna tell me that there are people in the world who do not know what civil defense sirens going off in non-stormy conditions means? Cause if it ain’t stormy, and the sirens are going off, it means only 1 of 2 things.
1: The system is being tested;
2: Air-raid/war.
That’s it. Civil Defense sirens only sound during storms where a funnel cloud or tornado has been sighted, when the system is being tested, or when the nukes and/or bombers are inbound.
Funny that, upon hearing the siren, they direct me to check my local media. I don’t even own a fucking television.
And so endeth another. More time wasted…another day or two or three or so, gone. Nothing learned. Nothing gained. Nothing to show for our time. Nothing at all. Although…it’s now Monday, and humans are launching UFOs on Mars.
fucking rofl
My entire life, Martians have been slinging UFOs our way. I’ve lived long enough to see the tides turn. 19 April, 2021…humans launched a flying object on Mars. My divorce was final 4 years ago today.
Coincidence?
*Nice! Good choice of Song to start, Clicky…*
*Oh shit! That was the soundtrack to that dream, Clicky… /lights up and smokes… I woke up humming it…*
*Phil opines? …/taps ash… Who’da thunk it?*
lacuna (n.)
“blank or missing portion in a manuscript,” 1660s, from Latin lacuna “hole, pit,” figuratively “a gap, void, want,” diminutive of lacus “pond, lake; hollow, opening” (see lake (n.1)). The Latin plural is lacunae. The word has also been used in English from c. 1700 in the literal Latin sense in anatomy, zoology, botany. The adjectival forms have somewhat sorted themselves: Mathematics tends to use lacunary (1857), natural history lacunose (1816), and lacunar (n.) is used in architecture of paneled ceilings (1690s), so called for their sunken compartments. Leaving lacunal (1846) for the manuscript sense.
*Sign language? Interesting – I think of synchromysticism as sign language for the def…*
*’Cos it’s no one’s fuckin’ bidness, butt his own, Clicky…*
Greetings fellow humans, humanoids, and other assorted entities residing in gravity. My name is Cade F.O.N Apollyon, and I would like to welcome you to this edition of “Missive From ‘Merica”. My co-hosts are RooBeeDoo, her assistant Clicky, and by the time you read this they have likely formatted and polished this particular writing of mine to a high shine.
You should know from the start here that I have made a decision to take the writing in a different direction today, as it would appear that some consider my writing as terse. Acerbic. Vulgar. Dirty. Offensive. Racist. Misogynistic. Disrespectful. Blasphemous. Too forward or too direct. Too cluttered, disorganized and sloppy. Too happy-go-lucky and freewheeling. Too loosey-goosey with the rules. Too non-standard, abstract and misty. Too vague. Too distant and nonsensical and even pointless. Too…
Zen.
For your own personal peace of mind, I would like to remedy this. All of it.
With that in mind, I, today, shall take my first baby-steps into a new world. No longer shall I endeavor to write in such a way as to inspire you to think with your own mind and leave you with your own thoughts to make your own decisions; I shall now strive to dictate your thoughts and your thinking for you. I will strive to find all your answers for you, and then deliver them to you. I shall strive to add my own voice to that of the echo chamber. I shall join the resonant drone so as to add more power to the socially acceptable mantra(s). Perhaps my finally joining the throng will be the straw that breaks the camel’s back, and this whole mess will, finally, and completely, self-destruct.
Thank you for putting me on the path. Thank you for showing me the light. Thank you for saving me from myself for your own benefit.
Namaste.
– – –
Last night’s dream was terrible. I could get nothing right. Everything I did was wrong: was clumsy, was awkward, everything I touched ended in complete disaster. The worst part about the dream though? I remembered it when I awoke. I already get everything wrong in my waking life. ‘Tis a shame that I am now getting it wrong in my dreams.
No stranger to dreams here. Dreams are a regular part of my life, dreaming is a regular and frequent occurrence, and they are always strange in that they always seem to be completely detached from reality. There are very real things in them sure, but they always, I mean always, take a strange turn that is so completely unexpected that the reality within the dream is shattered.
I have been dreaming every night, without fail, ever since around July/August of 2019. The thing is, I’ve started to not remember my dreams very much, which is highly unusual for me personally.
Alas, I must bail out of this section. I must digress and write something else.
I was going to regale you, the reader, with the all of the details and specifics of last night’s dream, but I have completely lost my nerve. My shyness has kicked in, self-preservation mode has been activated, I’ve lost my train of thought, and I’m far too fearful at this point to share my dream with you for fear of being thought of as a complete freak. My courage has left me.
Apologies.
– – –
Should dance be considered a martial art? Strange question, but I must ask it. It would help some if you, the reader, has an understanding of what a martial art is.
Martial arts are codified systems and traditions of combat practiced for a number of reasons such as self-defense; military and law enforcement applications; competition; physical, mental, and spiritual development; entertainment; and the preservation of a nation’s intangible cultural heritage.
Source: Wikipedia
Disarming. Dance, dances and dancing are disarming. There are a great many people, in the world, right now, doing dances, in order to disarm people. Making an effort to get the masses to drop their guard or lower their weapons. Molding the hearts and minds of individuals, in the moment, so as to get them to behave in a way that is more conducive to that which suits the dancer’s purpose. And that is the purpose of the dance: to focus a certain specific energy in a certain specific direction.
Typically, I’d think a dancer would want anyone watching to be pleased. Sure, the dancer wants to express themselves, and dance is the art form they’ve chosen as a medium for this expression, but they are going to want others to like their efforts. They are going to want to be accepted and garner approval from others. They are going to want to know that their time in learning to dance has been well spent. The audience has fallen under your spell, and will now behave according to your wishes.
With that, I must question that which is a martial art, which is typically not considered a martial art. Question those things that allow an individual to command and control a situation. Why? I’ve began to ponder the idea that if dance can be considered a martial art, so too can theatre. So now I must question the nature of theatre. I must question my preconceived notions about what is and is not theatre.
Is a street performance to be construed as theatre? Is a public gathering to be considered a street performance?
Is a riot to be considered a street performance?
Is giving a briefing outside of 10 Downing Street to be considered a street performance?
Is “a mass shooting” to be considered a street performance?
Is a reporter reporting from the site of some event to be considered a street performance?
Is all of that theatre? Is any of it?
Is the point of theatre to titillate, excite and entertain? To rouse and/or stir emotion(s) in their audience? Furthermore, is it the point of the theatre company and players to swing these emotions for their own benefit? What does the audience get in return, and do they get their money’s worth?
Is that what this is all about? Money?
Oh my, that does not look like writing that is going to please an audience. I am putting entirely too much pressure on the reader’s shoulders. I should be giving answers instead of asking questions.
Pardon me whilst I digress to a something that maybe I can hold a thought on.
– – –
Not being fond of being told what to do, there are only two possibilities…
Uno: The person telling me what to do knows how to do what they want done, but they see the task as beneath them and they have better things to do anyway, so they farm the work out.
Dos: The person telling me what to do does not know how to do what they want done, so they farm the work out to someone else in the hopes that this other individual can figure it out.
If número uno is the case, and the person you unload the work on does not yet know how to accomplish the task, I have to consider exclusivity and mentoring factors. Does the assignor assist in the task? Or are they throwing the assignee to the wolves.
Repulsion.
If número dos is the case, and the person you unload the work on does not yet know how to accomplish the task, you now have not one person who doesn’t know how to do a something, but two. I have to think about how many more “non knowing” individuals may be drawn into this endeavor in order to complete the task.
Gravitation.
What I am thinking about here is the nature of enterprise. What lifts up, and what pushes down? And I must, must, consider time.
If someone assigns me the task of completing and proving the GUT (Grand Unified Theory), is it a something that can actually be done? Are we humans actually capable of both understanding and explaining the Universe in its totality?
Am I?
Or is this just a time sinkhole meant to keep me occupied whilst others go off and do their own thing? A distraction in which the assignors have no real investment in the dangerous aspects seeing as how I am the one who will fail, hence all blame will rest upon my shoulders. I am inept, not the theory.
To be completely truthful, I, most of the time, do not have a problem with being told what to do. In fact, I tend to operate best in environments where I am told what to do. If I have to be self-reliant in dreaming up work for myself, I am most certainly going to be out in the fringes working on abstract things that others are likely to deem to far too distant to be relevant within the current time-frame. Leave me to my own devices, and the realms of the negligible is where you’ll find me. Splashing along the shoreline in the waters upon the far shores. The long odds. The impossible. The unknowable.
In order to be understood, I want, and perhaps need, another to tell me what to do.
– – –
We are only just now starting to see a lot of things in our world. Things that have existed for very long times, we perhaps have heard of them, but they so stretched the imagination that we could not comprehend that such things were possible. As such, we relegate these thing to the world(s) of myth and legend. Fantasy. Tall tales. Some real something that has been so embellished upon that it doesn’t actually exist, and certainly is not as advertised.
Not so anymore.
We can fire up our own personal communication devices of all kinds, and know almost instantly what is transpiring anywhere in the world. We can also know things that are happening in our solar system, in our galaxy, and even around the Universe. Perhaps not so timely with those last three, but we can certainly know more, and quicker, than at any point in our known history. We can be told, by others, what is going on, where, and maybe even why this something is happening.
I wonder sometimes how well you yourself interpolate information. Not interpret – interpolate. Although the two do share some concepts, there is a difference between the two. Alas, because of my new paradigm, I can no longer provide links to definitions for your consideration. I guess I am, again, gonna have to digress, and you’re just gonna have to do all the legwork yourself if you wanna figure out where I was going with all of this.
Apologies.
– – –
With everyone being sick and tired of lockdown, one thing that it has achieved, which most may not think about, is that transmission by hand has almost certainly been curtailed. And I’m not talking about transmission of disease(s) by hand either, I’m talking about the transmission of data and information by hand.
Instructions. Orders.
Perhaps give a few short moments to consider the last time you saw anything at all via the press about any “terrorist” anything.
This is supposedly how most terrorist groups transfer their information…by hand. Circumvents all those electronic snoopers that have gotten so damn good at monitoring anything and everything. I’d imagine that lockdown has made any “terrorist” organization(s) have to rethink their information channels and adapt. And this lockdown has likely also changed the dynamics of leakers and how they operate. You may be able to still grab sensitive or classified info, but getting the info elsewhere on some physical media just got really difficult.
I’m sure lockdown has had the effect of giving surveillance networks some really unique insight as to how data moves/is moving when they have more or less of a monopoly on the information channels.
Bollocks.
I just started to re-read that section and have noticed that I am, yet again, slipping right back into my old writing style. Putting that comfortable clothing on. Returning to my natural ragamuffin state.
Learning to express yourself in a way that is pleasing to others is rough.
– – –
Sick … and tired … of lockdown. The cure is the sickness.
SWTFC.0168.2021.01.13
I will be seeing you around.
Library of Libraries 