‘As the scaffolding of the planetary system arises, a newborn star emerges from the nebula where the Anthropos is embedded. Owing to its superior mass, the star causes the emergent planetary system to cohere around it. It becomes the central sun of the Archontic heaven, a realm of celestial mechanics dominated by blind, inorganic forces.
‘Sophia shames the Demiurge by declaring to him that the Anthropos, though yet unborn, surpasses the Archons in intelligence, for humanity is an emanation of the Pleroma, whereas the Archons arise outside the cosmic core, without an act of emanation. Witnessing this reprimand, and shocked by the arrogance of the Demiurge, the newborn star undergoes a conversion: it chooses to align with Sophia against the realm of Archontic forces, i.e., the inorganic planetary field.
‘The fallen goddess recognizes this choice and produces from herself a daughter in her own likeness, the life force Zoe, who unites with the sun, the mother star of the planetary system.’
*Ha! …/lights up… Thoughtful Man …/drags… took me to see that on our first date, Clicky… /stream smoke… ‘is mate at work told ‘im it was a sure fire guarantee to get ‘im laid…*
*Wot? Nah, it’s a musical based on an opera… /smokes…*
Apparently, Dear Reader, solar and lunar events are imminent…
Major Solar Storm To Strike Earth This Week As "Black Supermoon" Looms | Zero Hedge https://t.co/y3el92V5zF
… And secondly, a rather particular storm is coming…
‘An absolutely massive hole has formed in the upper atmosphere of the Sun, and our planet will align with that hole later this week. Once the alignment happens, Earth will be bombarded by a “solar storm”, and nobody is quite sure yet how bad it will be. If the storm is relatively minor, we could just experience a few disruptions to satellite communications and see some pretty lights in the sky.
‘But if the storm is really severe, our electrical grid could be fried and we could experience widespread power outages. According to the Express, “the solar storm will hit Earth on July 31 or August 1″…’
*/stubs butt… No, it’s a newspaper, Clicky… /rolls eyes… Mind you, if a solar flare does deep fry our electrics…*
*’Xactly… /scratches nose… I wonder if the eco-loonies ‘ave properly fought about wot they wish for…*
*That’s right, Clicky, winter is coming…*
… So, solar flares and spring tides notwithstanding, Dear Reader, we hope to see you back at the LoL soon…Have a Song… 😉
*Apt image, Clicky, considering this is my second Stranger Things post… /pats snout… well done…*
As promised, Dear Reader, a second post about the hit TV show ‘Stranger Things’, but this time in regards to a short story by my friend Leggy. H.K Hillman has a rare talent for writing tales that linger long after you’ve finished reading them. His tale ‘The Imagination Virus’ also ‘synced’ with an experience I had in 1985 when I was 17. I mentioned it to him when we first became friends in 2014…
… So it was weird to see something similar played out on ‘Stranger Things’. Another ‘sync’…
*Yeah, it was like that, except purple, Clicky…/lights up…*
… Another ‘reality’ appears…
*/drags… Yeah, I could smell the difference, butt couldn’t see it… /stream smoke… And it was strange when JLL decoded ‘tonsils’ in his Mandela Effect investigation…*
… So I asked Leggy if we could reproduce his story here at the LoL. He agreed, so settle back, Dear Reader, and enjoy ‘The Imagination Virus’. Meet you for a Song at the bottom 😉
*******
The Imagination Virus
by H.K. Hillman
As Dale walked beside Julie, his nurse, he saw the other world again. The crisp, white hospital walls faded into the damp, mould-encrusted bricks he had come to know well. The flicker of tallow candles replaced the bright fluorescent lighting, their odour wiping out the smell of disinfectant. He didn’t want to look at Julie. He knew what he’d see; he knew how she would look to him now.
“Dale, are you all right?”
He stopped walking, the muscles in his face twisted in disgust. Julie put her hand on his shoulder.
“Dale,” she said. “What is it? Are you seeing it again?”
“Yes. It’s awful.” He couldn’t help looking at her. He shuddered at the patchy grey hair, the hunched shoulders, the sore-ridden, wasted body clad in soiled brown cloth.
She smiled, showing her few remaining teeth, black and rotting, and he could smell her graveyard breath, the breath of something that had feasted on decay. He closed his eyes, tight. “I don’t want to see this anymore,” he said. “I want to see the real world, the clean world. Not this – this monstrosity!”
Julie took his arm. “Come on,” she said. “I’ll guide you the rest of the way to the doctor’s office. It’s just a little further. The doctor will know what to do.” She led him as if he was blind, slowly moving forward until she stopped him with a hand on his chest. “Dale,” she said, “open your eyes. What do you see now?”
“I don’t need to look,” he said. “I can smell the candles, feel the damp. I know I’m still hallucinating.”
“Look anyway. For me.”
Dale opened his eyes. “I can see a doorway, in a wall of cracked plaster, showing bare bricks. A battered door is hanging in the frame and I can see light through the gaps in the boards. There’s a symbol, a cross, drawn in red on the centre of the door and some markings below it, which I can’t quite see…”
Then, abruptly, everything changed. He was facing a white-painted door with a frosted glass panel. The light showing through the panel wasn’t flickering, it was the focused light of a reading lamp. The tallow-smell had gone, replaced with the ubiquitous disinfectant smell of the hospital. He looked at Julie and smiled. “You can see the hospital now?” she said. He paused before replying, savouring her long black hair and perfect smile, the crisp white uniform that showed off her shape so well.
“Yes,” he said. “Everything is fine now. I see the door as it really is, clean and white with a frosted window.” He drew a long breath as Julie knocked, then released it slowly as she opened the door.
The doctor stood, smiling, then walked across to Dale, his hand outstretched. “Dale,” he said. “How are you today? How’s that other world of yours?”
Dale winced. These attempts at humour always sounded flippant to him, as though his condition were some kind of joke. He knew the doctor meant well, but sometimes Dale wondered if the doctor believed a word he said.
“The other world is Hell,” he said, not accepting the doctor’s handshake.
The doctor’s brow creased into a frown. “Had another visit recently?”
Dale nodded.
“Just a moment ago,” Julie said. “His hallucination is consistent, he always sees the same things in the same places. Where there’s a door, Dale sees a door, but it looks very different to him.”
The doctor looked at Dale. “And it’s always the same?” he said.
“It depends where I am,” Dale said. “It’s always the same for a particular place. It’s as if the hallucination is overlaid on reality, permanently, and sometimes I can see it.”
He thought for a moment. “You know,” he said, “I’ve been trying to remember what things were like outside. Before I came to the hospital. I can’t. I can’t even remember what I used to do or where I used to live. It’s as if I never existed outside here.” He buried his face in his hands.
“Relax, Dale,” the doctor said. “You did have a life, you know. You lived over on the West Side, alone, and you had a job. I’m afraid it wasn’t glamorous. You were a cook in a small cafe. It’s the virus. It’s affecting your brain, causing these hallucinations and amnesia about your previous life.”
“Can it be cured?”
The doctor smiled an indulgent smile. “We’re doing everything we can.”
“But can it be cured, or not? How long will I be here?”
“When you see the hospital all the time, and don’t see your Hell at all, then you’ll be ready to leave,” the doctor said. “You’re already seeing it less often. Only once today.”
“So far,” Dale said, curling his lip.
“That’s good enough,” Julie said. “The day’s nearly over.”
“That’s right,” the doctor said. “Time for Nurse Davis to take you off to bed. We’ll meet again tomorrow.”
Dale started to rise, but stopped halfway. He looked at the doctor. “Is it contagious?” he said. “It’s just that Julie – I mean Nurse Davis – and the other nurses spend a lot of time around me. Are they at risk?”
“Not at all,” the doctor said. “The virus is very hard to catch. The nurses are safe with you. Now, off to sleep with you.”
Julie led Dale back to his room. He climbed into bed, and she handed him his sleeping tablets and water. He had taken them every night without question, but tonight he felt like a change. He wanted to think, not to sleep. Dale didn’t want to offend the nurse so he put the tablets into his mouth and took the water. Instead of swallowing, he trapped both tablets between his cheek and gum, throwing the mouthful of water back as usual.
“Well done, Dale,” Julie said. After her routine of fussing with his bedclothes, she left the room, turning down the light.
Dale picked out the tablets with a finger and put them under his pillow. Sure, the staff would find them in the morning and they’d be annoyed with him, but so what? He was a patient, not a prisoner, after all. He lay back, enjoying the warm, clean sheets of the bed, and tried to remember his life before the hospital. He had been a cook, so if he could think of something, a recipe perhaps, maybe something would come back. Still trying to think, he drifted into sleep.
***
He was woken by the creak of a door opening. His bed was uncomfortable and his sheets felt rough and dirty. He could hear voices, talking quietly as if to avoid waking him. He opened one eye, just a little, and saw the doctor and another man. Both were wearing rough sheets of brown cloth which were draped around them like cerements.
Both were hunched and looked malnourished, both were covered in sores and stinking of decay. Oh great, he thought, another hallucination. He closed his eye and pretended to be asleep.
The doctor was speaking. “He’s making good progress. He sees the clean world most of the time now, he only sees the decaying world intermittently.”
“Good,” the other man said. “When will he be ready?”
“A matter of days.”
“The fundamentalists haven’t found out?”
“No. As far as I know, they don’t even know about our work.”
The unknown man grunted. “We have to be careful. They have spies everywhere. They won’t approve of what we’re trying to do here, they would consider our work blasphemy. Interference with God’s punishment, or something like that.”
“I know,” the doctor said. “Our staff are carefully checked, and no visitors are allowed.”
“Very good. What about the others, are they seeing the same things?”
“Yes,” the doctor said. “The other patients all show the same hallucinations as Dale here. We’ve kept them separate so we can be sure they’re not comparing notes. They all report exactly the same visions. The virus, it seems, works the same way on everyone.”
There are others, Dale thought. Others like me, with the same virus, the same hallucinations. Dale squirmed on his bed. It felt as though he was lying on a coarse sheet laid directly on the bedframe.
“Careful,” the doctor said. “Best not wake him.” The two men left, closing the door quietly.
Dale opened one eye. All clear. He opened the other. Bare-brick walls surrounded him, lit by a single guttering candle on the far side of the room. He put a hand onto the mattress – there was no mattress! He sat up, examined the bed, and found that it was no more than a few planks of wood with a coarse blanket thrown over it. A similar blanket covered him. His pillow was a sack stuffed with straw. On an impulse, he lifted it, and saw the two sleeping tablets he had put there earlier. So they were still
there, even in his hallucination. He hoped that was a sign he was getting better, that small pieces of reality were filtering through his nightmares.
As he held the pillow, Dale noticed his arms, bare in his filthy, coarse night-shirt. His skin was grey, his muscles wasted, and red sores oozed pus that dripped onto the bed. His left hand was missing two fingers, their stumps black with infection. Feeling an itch on his right forearm, he turned his arm to look at it and screamed. A large sore had burst, purple flesh was exposed and maggots wriggled in the wound. Still screaming, he beat his arm against the bed.
The door opened and the hag he knew was really Julie came into the room, followed by the doctor. Pushing him back on the bed, the doctor held him still while Julie tried to calm him. “Think, Dale,” she said. “Think of the hospital. Try to see it.”
“Why is he awake?” the doctor said. “Didn’t he take his pills?”
“Yes. I saw him take them. Dale, come on, concentrate.”
“Maggots,” Dale said, his voice a childish whine. “In my arm. Maggots eating me.”
“No,” Julie said “Don’t see them. Look at me, Dale. You can do it.”
“Yes,” Dale said. “Hallucination. Virus. Not real.” He stopped struggling, closed his eyes and tried to control his breathing. He waited until he could smell disinfectant, then opened them. Julie smiled down at him, long black hair covering part of her face. The doctor released him and stood up.
“Feeling better now?” the doctor said.
“Yes,” Dale said. “It’s gone.”
Julie was looking at him, her brow furrowed. “What happened to your pills?”
With a sheepish expression, Dale lifted his pillow and brought out the two white pills. Saying nothing, he handed them to Julie.
“I thought as much,” she said. “I’ll get you some more.” She left the room.
“You really should take the pills,” the doctor said. “We can’t have you screaming all night, you know. You have to get some rest, and so do the staff.”
“I know,” Dale said. “I haven’t done this before. I don’t think I’ll do it again.”
The doctor smiled. “With luck, you shouldn’t need to for much longer. We think you should be okay within a week.”
Dale looked up, hopeful.
“There are other patients with your virus. Some of them haven’t seen the terrible world in days. If you follow the same pattern, one more week should do it.”
“That’s great news. So I just have to hold on for a week?”
“No guarantees, but I hope so.”
Dale lay back on the bed, grinning, just as Julie returned with a plastic cup and a glass of water. “Here you are,” she said, holding out the rusted tin mug. No! Plastic cup, plastic cup, concentrate! The mug wavered, became the cup again. Dale took it and swallowed the pills even before Julie handed him the wooden goblet. Glass! Glass of water!
“It’s starting again,” Dale said.
“Don’t worry,” Julie said. “The pills will take effect in a moment.”
Dale looked into her clouded red eyes and fell asleep.
When he woke, Doreen sat beside his bed. With her red hair in a tight bun, her lips in a tight smile, she was pretty, but nowhere near as pretty as Julie. Still, at least he could see her, at least he wasn’t seeing some rag-clad monstrosity.
“Good morning, Doreen,” he said.
“So you’re awake. I’ll get your breakfast sent in,” she said, standing and walking to the door. She paused as she opened it. “I hear you refused your medication last night. I hope there’ll be no such nonsense on my shift.”
As if he would dare. “No,” he said. “I’ve learned my lesson.” He had a fleeting vision of her as a twisted, infected horror as she left. Damn, he thought, the hallucinations are strange today, flashing in and out. That hasn’t happened before. He would have to ask the doctor about that, ask if it had happened to the other patients, the ones who had recovered. An orderly brought his breakfast and he sat up to eat.
Doreen returned just as he finished. “Up you get,” she said. “The doctor wants to see you.”
Dale’s eyebrows rose. “So early? He doesn’t usually see me until the afternoon or evening.”
Doreen pulled the sheets back. “Well, today it’s the morning,” she said. “Don’t ask me, I just do what I’m told.”
Dale slipped his legs off the wooden bed and climbed into the sackcloth garment. He clutched his head. Mattress. There is a mattress. I’m wearing jeans and a shirt. He took a deep breath and followed Doreen out of the room, along the white bare brick corridor. Gloss-white paint overlaid damp, mildew-covered stone. Fluorescent lights fought tallow candles for illumination. Dale shook his head.
“What is it?” Doreen said. “More hallucinations?”
“Worse. I’m seeing both now, one on top of the other, like a double exposure.”
“We’d better hurry along to the doctor.”
Doreen propelled him along the corridor, past white-uniformed staff with faces ravaged by infection, past roughly-made wooden doors with frosted glass panels, into the doctor’s room. She hadn’t knocked. The doctor looked up, surprised.
“He’s seeing both at once,” Doreen said, guiding Dale to a chair and pressing him into it.
“Oh dear,” the doctor said. “This could be serious. You’d better get a sedative ready.” Doreen nodded and left the room.
“What?” said Dale. “What’s serious? What’s happening to me?”
The doctor frowned. “Stay calm,” he said. “It’s the virus. Your body is rejecting it, cleaning itself. How are you feeling?”
“Scared. And confused. You said I used to be a cook. I wasn’t. I remember – something. I remember a laboratory. I was a scientist, wasn’t I?”
The doctor played with a pencil then put it down abruptly. “Yes, Dale, you were.”
“I worked with viruses. This virus. I was infected. What was it, an accident?”
The doctor stood, his crisply-ironed sackcloth flashing white, then brown, his strong, wasted frame striding, limping, to the window. “It wasn’t an accident.”
“What do you mean?”
“It wasn’t an accident, Dale. You infected yourself deliberately.” The doctor turned to face him. “You infected the others first, then yourself.”
“No!” Dale stood, knocking over the wooden box he had been sitting on. “No. You’re lying.” His hands bunched into fists as he faced the doctor, then he felt a sharp pain in his back. Turning, he saw Doreen holding a syringe, her red hair becoming a mottled grey as his consciousness fled.
He could smell iodine. Forcing his eyes open, he saw that he was lying on straw, damp and foetid, in a bare room. With a groan, he stood and walked to the door. It was barred from the outside. “Hey,” Dale shouted, banging on the door. “Let me out.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible.” The doctor’s voice came through the door.
“Doctor? Is that you?” Dale paused. “I remember. You’re Simon.” He spoke slowly, dragging the words from the deepest pits of his memory. “Doctor Simon Morgan.”
“Yes, Dale, it’s me.” The voice wavered.
“You’re my brother.” Dale leaned against the door. “You didn’t tell me.”
“It would have interfered with your treatment. Your memories have to recover on their own.”
“Why am I locked up like this?”
“For your own safety.” The last word was choked off by a sob.
Dale could still smell iodine. He looked at his arms. They were thin and grey, the red welts oozing pus. The wound on his right arm, which had been full of maggots, had been cleaned and was stained yellow. That was where the iodine smell was coming from. Why had they treated it? It wasn’t real. He banged on the door again.
“Let me out, Simon,” he said, “I’m hallucinating again.”
There was a long silence. “No, you’re not.”
“Yes I am. I’m covered in sores and this room is vile. There’s only stinking straw to sleep on.”
Another long silence. “It’s not an hallucination, Dale. This is the real world.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. This is the rotten world of my hallucination. The virus—”
“The virus causes illusion and forgetfulness. Those infected don’t see the real world any more, and don’t remember it. They see the world as it was before the war.”
“What war?” There had been a war, he remembered vaguely.
“The final war. The chemical and biological weapons war. You were working on antidotes for the weapons, but you were too late. The war took us all by surprise. So you worked on a new virus. This one.”
“Yes, yes, I know. The hallucinations are all my fault. I need help now, Simon. I’m stuck in my hallucination.”
“No, Dale, you’ve lost your hallucination. Your body has rejected the virus, so you don’t have hallucinations any more. You’ll start remembering more soon.”
“What do you mean?”
There was a deep sigh from the other side of the door. “This is it, Dale. This is reality. The war killed most people and those few of us who survived are dying slowly, hideously deformed by the weapons that were used. Your virus is our only hope. It won’t cure us but it gives the illusion of normality, of cleanliness, of life before the war. The other patients are fine, they believe they’re in a clean, wonderful hospital in a beautiful world. We’ll begin injecting more people with the virus soon.”
“What about me? Why not just inject me again?”
“It won’t work, Dale. You’re immune now. The virus won’t work on you.”
Dale slumped against the door. “So what next?”
“Soon we’ll all be seeing the clean world of your hallucination. Thanks to you, your work, your virus, we’ll all be able to enjoy life again. Oh, life will still be short, but it’ll be better.”
“You mean everyone will see the illusion of a clean reality.”
“Yes. Well, almost everyone.”
“Almost?”
“Everyone but you, Dale. Everyone but you. That’s why I’ve hidden you here, to stop the authorities killing you as they did the others. Those who the virus failed to infect. I can never let you out. You represent too great a risk, the risk of remembrance.”
Dale sank to the floor, sobbing, as his brother’s footsteps echoed among the drips from the damp walls.
*******
*That’s a cracking collection of short stories, Clicky… /smokes… sum times I fink the man’s on a nuvver plane…*
Had a little bit of a hiccup with Cade’s latest missive, below, Dear Reader. Apols! Hopefully you won’t find your enjoyment diminished ❤
*******
I have come to the conclusion that my normalcy is defective.
Defective normalcy...I have it
I have the same normalcy as anyone else, it’s just that my particular batch was maybe brewed after the factory had been in business for a while. Not quite the same as the first few batches.
An acquired taste?
/shrug
^Junkie XL — Crusher.. High quality.^
Everywhere you turn, there is someone waiting to tell you what a fuckup you are. How wrong you are. How inadequate you are. What you are doing wrong. Usually because you are doing a similar or same something in a different way. Kinda makes you wonder how you’ll eventually react when someone tells you that you aren’t a fuckup. Like, would there possibly be some groups or people out there who might seek to take advantage of such channeling? You could win a lot of converts by being accepting of the mutants and defects. Assuming there are indeed people out there looking for some place to go that is. Could make you look quite powerful when you kick a mutant in the teeth.
^Marie Davidson – ‘Work It (Soulwax Remix)’^
DATELINE: 20,000,000 BC
LOCATION: Antarctica
LOCAL CLIMATE: Temperate
CONTINENTAL ICE COVERAGE: 0%
So…if 70% of the planet’s current freshwater is stored on the continent of Antarctica, and if all this shit melts the oceans are going to rise almost 400 feet and drown us all…
Q: What were the continents up to 20 million years ago?
A: ???
Yeah, I kinda get it, ocean levels were higher and a lot of shit that is above water now was below water then. As recently as 500,000 years ago, the place where my stinky ass currently sits was completely under water as part of the Gulf of Mexico/Atlantic Ocean. But there are some things that aren’t adding up. Maybe I should think on this further and reach some conclusions before writing about it. Otherwise, I’ll wind up sounding like a complete moron. Can’t have that. Gotta learn to tow the line(s).
^BORIS “Statement” (Official)^
I keep seeing these huge blocks/chunks of missing time. Especially in the geological timelines. Is that normal?
^Slowdive – Shine (Video)^
Prolly normal that science has shifts between the research only mode(s) and teaching only mode(s). And it would further make sense that some of us are just…out of sync with those cycles.
*The tweet’s been deleted? …/squints… Bugger! Dear Reader’s not gonna know what Cade’s referring to. Shit, shit, shit… /pinches lip… Oh we’ll fink of sumfin. It could turn out ironic…*
It occurs to me that there’s no such thing as majority or minority when it’s just me and you. If I am “black”, and you are “white”, how do you justify these ancillary labels in a singular context? Do you really see yourself as an individual carrying the entire power of “the white race” when you encounter a person from another “race”? Because if that is so, you are likely also lugging around all the power of the human race, which I guess would include “minority peeps”. To go ridiculously further, this also would mean that you are also in possession of the powers of your gender, and all the powers of the opposite gender. I guess you’ve also got all the powers of the planet, which means you’re in possession of all the powers of the Universe…
Holy shit...you are GOD!
Lemme bow down to you. Or maybe it’s as simple as, you’ve got what you’ve got, I’ve got what I’ve got, and what we choose to do with that is kinda up to us in the moment and moments of our individual lives. Let’s change directions.
How do you treat other life and on what do you base how you treat it? Plants? Animals? Insects? Bacteria? To get more specific how do you treat dogs? Cats? Fish? Skinks? Skunks? Roaches? Butterflies? What about less-organic stuff? Cars? Computers? Dishes? Rocks? Desks? Chairs? Punching bags? Siri? Alexa? Water? Air? Sand? Does it matter whether a certain something is “yours” as to how you treat it? Like say, you baby the hell out of greenery in your own yard, but all you do is complain about the greenery in other people’s yards? You may even utilize municipal types of powers to enforce your will on others in order to make their yard look more pleasing to your own personal sensibilities?
Phantoms...we are full of them
^Renegade Soundwave – The Phantom (It’s In There) A – 1989^
I woke up to that tweet staring me in the face, and I admit that it confused the fuck outta me…
*Clicky! There are only three people in world who might possibly understand that… /rolls eyes…*
…It made sense in that, wait, is this lady someone who is experiencing some perceived inequality because of her age, gender and race? But that’s the obvious. “Society” doesn’t appear to owe me a damn thing, nor do I expect anything from it.
That said, I talk almost incessantly with a white, middle-aged woman, and she’s got all kinds of interesting and meaningful things to say. So perhaps it’s not whether or not you have anything meaningful to say, as much as it’s a matter of whether or not you say it. Most writers are quite timid. They hesitate as to what to say, and how to say it. As a result, we tend to latch on to popular concepts, say what everyone else is saying, and what you say gets lost in the noise.
No big surprise there
Maybe it’s a matter of you not having anyone to say your piece to? Invent them. Might wanna keep in mind they are fictional tho. Don’t want your creation to become a bogeyman. Sounds like you’ve already got enough of those in your life.
^White Zombie – I’m Your Boogie Man (Sex On The Rocks Mix)^
Speaking of not being heard…I’ve not heard from a certain someone in a while.
Hope you are OK
❤
^The Chemical Brothers – Sometimes I Feel So Deserted (Official Music Video)^
I am totally, completely, and permanently clad in nakedness.
^Broods – Freak Of Nature (Official Audio) ft. Tove Lo^
…more bad behavior. Yep, tourists behaving badly gives officials the ammo they need to behave badly themselves. You can imagine where things will go from there. On the surface, the story is suggesting that Instagram is to blame via the “influencers” that utilize social media to make massive monies. They spend money to travel to Iceland, to make stories, so they can take these stories take back home and make money off selling them via their social media accounts.
An investment in a future return
Now, I wonder where on EARTH people would get the crazy idea that controversial, radical, shocking, jarring and potentially offensive media would be a cash cow?
Certainly not just and only the CKY idiots
^CKY iceland_mission^
“The Cutting Edge” cares not about what it has already cut. It cares only about what it is cutting.
^CKY – “96 Quite Bitter Beings” (original music video before MTV edit)^
If you lived in a really great and cool looking place, but couldn’t do anything because everything is barred and/or banned, would that be considered…hell?
^SHPONGLE – Strange Planet (2017)^
If you sought to control anything and everything, how would you know when you had achieved your goal? Been seeing a lot of “globalist” types of stuff rearing its head recently, and I gotta wonder how in the hell you would know that you and yours were “in control”. We live in a pretty dynamic place that appears to be cyclical, not to mention that most dictatorial regimes throughout history are paranoid as FUCK.
Wait…maybe that’s it. When “the powers” get paranoid, they do so because think they are in complete control. Makes sense. Power is scary.
^SOULWAX – NY Excuse^
You think it possible to latch on to a static point in space within the confines of a planet’s atmosphere? Like detach yourself completely from the “earth dynamic(s)” by latching onto a certain something that most will likely say doesn’t exist/is an impossibility? Yeah, I don’t think that’s possible either. There’s nothing within close proximity to our planet that represents a static point in space which is opposed to other points in space. Of course, there are those Alpha Loops and Omega Gates. They kinda operate that way. Not saying they actually exist, but they might.
^Why Rockets Fail – Earth’s Rotation Leads to Explosion of The First Soyuz Rocket^
Q: Would you experiment on your own body?
A: !!!?!!!¿!!!
I mean, assuming you had a good reason to do so, and the time to do it in. Everything in your life lined up almost perfectly, the way seemed clear, is your own body the logical place to start? Or you think it best to outsource? Group study? Clinical trials?
Never can be too safe
^BOMBAY DUB ORCHESTRA – Monsoon malabar^
INCOMING SONG LYRICS!!!
(song/video follows)
“The Number Of The Beast”
Iron Maiden
“Woe to you, oh Earth and Sea, for the Devil sends the beast with wrath
Because he knows the time is short…
Let him who hath understanding reckon the number of the beast
For it is a human number
Its number is Six hundred and sixty six”
I left alone, my mind was blank.
I needed time to think, to get the memories from my mind
What did I see?
Can I believe that what I saw that night was real and not just fantasy
Just what I saw in my old dreams
Were they reflections of my warped mind staring back at me?
‘Cause in my dreams it’s always there
The evil face that twists my mind and brings me to despair
The night was black, was no use holding back
‘Cause I just had to see, was someone watching me
In the mist dark figures move and twist
Was all this for real, or just some kind of hell?
666 the number of the beast
Hell and fire was spawned to be released
Torches blazed and sacred chants were praised
As they start to cry hands held to the sky
In the night the fires are burning bright
The ritual has begun, Satan’s work is done
666 the number of the beast
Sacrifice is going on tonight
This can’t go on, I must inform the law
Can this still be real or just some crazy dream?
But I feel drawn towards the chanting hordes
They seem to mesmerise…
Can’t avoid their eyes
666 the number of the beast
666 the one for you and me
I’m coming back
I will return
And I’ll possess your body and I’ll make you burn
I have the fire
I have the force
I have the power to make my evil take its course
Shocking
I am completely and totally shocked to my foundations…circa 1982.
^Iron Maiden – The Number Of The Beast (Official Video)^
Q: If I am sick, ill and/or in some kind of jeopardy, does that mean The Universe is sick, ill and/or in some kind of jeopardy as well?
A: ¿
Better be sure on the answer to that one…eh?
^jefferson airplane • go ask alice cover^
The topic of “kinetic sculptures” has come up recently. I’m wondering if the depictions in the video below qualify. Like, in the “virtual” sense. I guess it just got me to thinking about the generation of wind(s) in the “Archonic Realms”…if you will.
*/flicks ash… They made me delete the tweet, Clicky… /deep drag… and then suspended me from tweeting for 12 hours… /snorts smoke… Personally, I fink Twitter is homophonaphobic… /deep sigh… Talk about ate-full conduct… /smokes…*
… Fortunately, I was still able to DM, Dear Reader…
*/clears throat… Jo B’s joke got deleted too? Blimey…*
… with Leggy and Cade. My conversation with the Okie Devil started with the wonders of containers, before running through similarities of various‘2050’agendas, the ‘five monkeys experiment’, a rebuttal of the ‘five monkeys experiment’, a rebuttal of the rebuttal of the ‘five monkeys experiment’…
*Adora Belle Dearheart from the last post, Clicky… /lights up… I really did enjoy remote viewing ‘Going Postal’ with Cade this week… /drags…*
‘As is obvious from Moist’s nickname for her, “Spike”, she isn’t that adorable, nor is she a ‘dearheart’.’
*/winces… Okay, okay I’ll get on with it. Sheesh…*
Not sure if you’re aware, Dear Reader, but on the 4th of February, in a couple of days time, the Chinese Year of the (Earth) Dog comes to an end…
… And the Year of the (Earth) Pig begins the very next day…
*Indeed, the female, Earth pig, Clicky… /smokes… Pug to pig, nicely done. A game! My turn… /pats snout…*
‘According to the Chinese Horoscope theory, Female Earth is connected to the farmland. Pig mainly contains Male Water with Male Wood. Male Water is river and Male Wood is tall tree or wooden boat. The sign of 2019 Female Earth Pig year is a river flows over the farmland. It might cause flooding.’
*/flicks ash… Aha! That’s 2-2… /sucks teeth… Well Lashy does say the Aeon Sophia has a wicked sense of humour… /final drag… *
*Underdog Anthology VIII: Mo’ Biomass Strip will be out in the spring, Clicky… /stubs butt… I suppose I could write a story about a diamond pig…*
… And I experienced a sync earlier when I stopped to make myself a sammich because I was feeling a bit peckish. Ham, pickled onions and mayo if you must know…
‘He forgot all about Mandy and Norman as he stared at the expanse of grass. The sun had set behind the surrounding buildings, but there was still enough light to see the garden. All of the grass had been cut, and raked into neat piles. A faint promise of new green showed through the yellow stalks. The patches of shrubbery were still wild, although even they seemed more controlled than they had on his last visit.’
Norman’s House by H.K. Hillman – to be published February 2019
*/flicks ash… I’d been looking up furty one after seeing GaryK30’s calculation, Clicky… /deep drag… Come to fink of it… /holds smoke… Phenex was in ‘Jessica’s Trap’… /streams smoke… A fantastic read…*
… Royal castles, whispering grass and a rough calculation came together to sync with a gardener in a novel that I’m currently proof reading…
‘The Thirty-first Spirit is Foras. He is a Mighty President, and appeareth in the Form of a Strong Man in Human Shape. He can give the understanding to Men how they may know the Virtues of all Herbs and Precious Stones. He teacheth the Arts of Logic and Ethics in all their parts. If desired he maketh men invisible, and to live long, and to be eloquent. He can discover Treasures and recover things Lost. He ruleth over 29 Legions of Spirits, and his Seal is this, which wear thou, etc.’
— S. L. MacGregor Mathers (1904)
*/stubs butt… Coming soon, Clicky. Ooh… /rubs gut… Get a Song, I’m gonna… /farts loudly… That’ll be the pickled onions working…*
Enjoy your weekend, Dear Reader… And have a Song 😉
‘A wire as marking the finish line of a racecourse is attested from 1883.’
Yesterday, MPs voted on PM Jackboots’ DisMay Deal for leaving the EU, Dear Reader. It did not go so well for the poor mare…
*/flicks lighter… Didn’t pass the ‘smell test’, Clicky… /lights up… She dressed it up to look like Brexit… /drags… fooled the ayes, butt knot the noes… /streams smoke… Proper rotten it was…*
… I posted not-eyes of the result in the Red universe of MEROVEE. Cue Selfie…
The Prime Minister had better luck this evening, however, when the LOTO’s tabled ‘Motion of No Confidence’, following last night’s historic defeat, was beaten. Again by the noes. A short one; only nineteen votes this time…
This speech turning tonight's vote around to be a vote of no confidence in the Leader of the Opposition, instead of the Prime Minister, is bloody brilliant. Michael Gove is a hero. pic.twitter.com/Or5rzPpveJ
*Seabiscuit! …/final drag… Couldn’t find the scene from the movie, Clicky? …/stubs butt…*
In Reel Life: After losing the 1937 Santa Anita Handicap by a nose, Pollard tells Howard and Smith that he lost because he didn’t see Rosemont, the winner, coming up on him. He confesses that he’s blind in his right eye.
In Real Life: Pollard never told Smith and Howard that he was half-blind. His excuse for losing that race was that he had been stuck on the rail, which was slow, and was unable to get to the outside. “Had he let on that he was blind in one eye, his career would have been over,” writes Hillenbrand. “Howard accepted Pollard’s explanation without criticism. Neither he nor Smith blamed him.”
It’s sad to say, but both the Government and Opposition have proven themselves to be utter shite at implementing the result of the Independence Referendum. But what to do, Dear Reader?
“We do not believe any group of men adequate enough or wise enough to operate without scrutiny or without criticism. We know that the only way to avoid error is to detect it, that the only way to detect it is to be free to inquire. We know that in secrecy error undetected will flourish and subvert”. - J Robert Oppenheimer.
I AM the SynchroMiss planted on Earth, here to share my downloads, intel, and code-cracking, integrating the art of synchronicity as we transition to a higher state of consciousness and awareness.
Bad behavior inspires...
