by nielskunze on December 23, 2016
(Winter Time by Steve Miller Band)
Sirclik squeezed his eyes to mere slits, squinting against the unreasonable light reflecting off the snow and ice. There was light ahead, way ahead, but even here, a three-days journey out, it seemed to skid and bounce off of the homogenous white fields with little diminishment, poking him in the face, along with a relentless wind, causing the muscles in his brow to cramp and freeze. It was uncomfortable and foreign to anything he had known before… but all that was so far behind him already that he was truly now a stranger to himself, wandering in a strange land, toward an incomprehensible destination in pursuit of some idiotic personal mission. He didn’t understand his own motivations; he pressed on… only because going back seemed even more absurd.
He was empty of thought and rationale, a mere tumbling vessel of vacuous identity, rolling across a featureless landscape. Only the strange egg inside his breast throbbed with any semblance of life, a life no longer his own in any conceivable way. He was the arms and legs and breath of a singular esoteric mission assigned by the cryptic humour of some ancestral prank, the motility of an embodied idea too farfetched to even comprehend.
His feet shuffled on, wrapped in hides and sure compulsion. He stopped occasionally when the cold bit through to hug himself back to life, pulling his arms inside the makeshift tunic to warm his torso and his hands. It was a stranger hugging a stranger, as he was also the silent third– the witness– to such awkward necessity.
When the light ahead finally dimmed, he knew for the first time the definition of day and night… its length, its contrast, the silent, implacable measure of his resolve. In full darkness he had no choice but to stop, lest he might just wander in circles without the light ahead to guide his way. He piled the snow against the wind to huddle in a crevice. He yearned for fire, but there was nothing to burn… but the last of the calories in his empty gut. He grumbled with hunger throughout the night.
The trappings of his breath within that tiny cave of ice kept him alive during the few hours of fitful sleep. He managed to dream, but could not remember what. Dreams out of context, it seemed, were particularly fleeting and indistinct. The morning light penetrated his thin blanket of snow just enough to rouse him to wakefulness in a moment of blinking and de-cramping. With something less than real enthusiasm, he pushed himself up again into the daylight world, seeking passage again to the sun ahead.
A yellow orb in an orange-pink sky defined the sunrise of another day… in another world, that lay just ahead. He had never seen this sun before; it was a stranger, a foreigner to the man who stood at his back shrouded in dissolving memory like a trailing mist. Had he ever been that man? Truly?
He cast the ice from his veins in brisk deliberate movements, stamping his feet to encourage circulation in his numbed toes. There was naught to do but to press on another two days in total monotony… until the supposed ‘barrier’ encasing this beckoning world would decide whether and how he might pass within. And then what? He couldn’t even begin to imagine.
The second day passed interminably. Fortunately, even the processes of thought were cold, numbed and languid, so frustration was largely kept at bay by default. He tried at times to recall the many hours of instruction his dragon friend Lizabeth had bequeathed him, but their impenetrable unrelatability left him with just a head full of indecipherable hieroglyphs cluttering his mind. Their pertinence lay another day’s journey ahead, or so he had to believe.
That second night yielded very little sleep. As stores of energy were drastically depleted, the cold was able to bite that much harder. Waking again to the dawn light, this time a fair sight closer, he felt lucky to have woken at all. The vapour from his breath had iced the lids of his eyes firmly shut during the night. Cold clumsy fingers scraped the gluing shards away to allow the sight of the dawn ahead to fill him again with mad purpose, to rouse him to his feet– now seemingly permanently numbed– so that he might continue this agonizing shuffle toward a haunting destiny.
He had become an automaton. All movement was purely out of habit. His mind was a complete blank, and seemed to hover around the periphery of his upper body instead of staying strictly put inside his head. It was as though he was now just a loosely defined cloud of singular aspiration, drifting inexorably toward that unknown goal. There was nothing to reflect upon, nothing to remember, no cause for speculation. Fate was his dizzy companion… and there was nothing to discuss.
And then he was abruptly face down in the snow. That sudden reality was like a slap to instant wakefulness, causing him to wonder what had just happened. He pulled himself up on all fours, lifting his head to further discern the way. There was something directly in front of his face, invisible, undetectable to his senses… except that he could feel it there, right in front of him, gigantically looming…
It was the barrier. It was utterly huge, whatever it was. The strange egg throbbed inside him in some peculiar resonance with the invisible dome… as though the one was the microcosm of the macrocosm, one the internal origin of the other’s external reality. In some indecipherable way the egg was the dome; the dome was the egg.
He stood now before it, arms outstretched akimbo, sensing its implacable reality with an awareness beyond the five senses, an awareness that only comes in place of profound emptiness. Eyes closed, he could see it in his mind… and it wasn’t merely a dome, a protective shield placed upon the ground. Like the strange egg inside his breast, it was a fully enclosed bubble, or perhaps a cocoon. Where its edge met the ground it continued downward into the ice and snow, through the cold rock and frozen dirt beneath, to fully quarantine this world called Earth– from above, from below.
He stood before the outer magnetic edge of an alien world… and yearned only to be inside…
The barrier wasn’t physical, at least not in any way that made sense to the lone traveler. He could feel it, sense it, as he began to move through it. It provided no sensation to the outer receptors on his skin, but he could feel it moving within him as though he was a sponge and the dome a cold liquid. It poured through him in layers, like a beast devouring him, piece by piece dismembering him from the inside, masticating his last sense of selfhood, swallowing, appropriating his very essence…
And the strange egg burst like a star within him, filling him with the shrapnel of quantized, fractured light…
Sunlight in the Void… a mutual devouring, one into the other, from the other… the hands of paternity shaping the potter’s clay in divine purpose… infinity captured in the full lilt of the pendulum’s swing… from this to that, sound and silence…
Scintillant shafts and spears projected from the merger of eyes… to a screen of ghosts, monsters, shadows and angels… thoughts contorting to accommodate their own convoluted story-lines… imaginative array… unbound… unhinged…
And the sound… oh, the sound! Going out in reverberation… a blending of music and will, then circling the outer ear… spiraling, tunneling… the motion of God’s own jihad, coming to kill Himself, over and over again… the seductive melody of falsehood and self… everything propped up by words… in motion, dancing…
A swoon in the dizzied breast… call it love, punctuated by fear– the fear of moments unending… ribcages exploding in delight, for annihilation’s sweet promise that time is a friend… and a foe to singularity. The circle is broken… and outstretched, a line in parallel with infinity… finding no edge, no blade, no cut… just the unstaunched bleeding, with borrowed blood… beating back the inevitable, until growth pushes forward… into this stranger’s waiting embrace…
The power and the plexus… a filigree network, first tied to the sun, like a spider in her web… the lens is shaped from purpose and feedback. There are no naked eyes here; there is no seeing without the lens. The moon is a tunnel, through the quarantine, through amnesia… linking outer with inner, guarded by the cold-blooded, intelligent life-force of fire-breathing dragons… and our mutual dreaming…
The coming of procreators… spewing pools of sticky consensus, garments of agreements for the organization of masses… of generations, self-forgetting… dressing each other in the costumes we’d prefer for ourselves… and our unrecognized aspirations… pushing our leaders from behind…
And finally… the fragility of need… tied tightly to the ground… from loftiness to filth, the distant bars on the barometer… high and low– equal morsels to feed the relentlessness of hunger, the ever-present companion at life’s outer edge… motility… motion… prerequisites to the Hero’s quest… but stilled in fear, and equal measure of self-approbation… the kneeling supplicant… made humble, made great.
He was in. He was done, lain out to die.
Passed through the barrier, the barrier had passed through him, shattering the egg, spilling its mystery, diffusing a whisper of ancient breath. He was face-down in the snow, unable to even open his eyes, lucky to breathe… once more… and again…
…and then, nothing.
He was rocked gently, in a giant cradle, dictating the rhythm of the deepest sleep reserved for the undead. Movement, more than anything, was a sure sign of life. If something moved, something was alive… but it wasn’t he who moved; it was the world in its totality, rocking back and forth, languidly, gently, reassuringly. Was it the giant hands of creator gods lovingly trying to rouse him? Was this mere slumber, or something more mysterious, sinister?
No. He was warm, comfortable– shockingly so. He could feel the outline of his body, buried under blankets or skins, under a mountain of care of someone else’s devising.
Gentle sounds came to his ears: the creaking of wood in mild duress, the pat-pat of hands smoothening the ruffled edges of reality, far distant voices– human, and then the almost imperceptible movements of someone nearby– clothes rustling, the creak of a chair being sat upon…
He opened his eyes.
“Ah, welcome friend,” came the voice from the man in the chair beside his bed. “We didn’t know if we’d ever see you alive.” He stood suddenly from the chair and stepped to the table beside the head of the bed. There he poured coffee, steaming, into a mug. He seemed to warm his own hands on it before passing it to the remnants of the man buried beneath the covers.
Under the covers, his own arms were impossibly heavy, nearly unresponsive. But with great effort and determination he drew them out from beneath the heavy quilts and accepted the mug. The hot liquid was bitter, but good, blacker than dried blood but fluid like thoughts and rain.
“I’m Ed Barrington. You’re aboard my ship. We should be back to the Americas in about a month,” said the man smiling. “And you are…?”
The briefest moment of panic set in as he swallowed the coffee, not knowing at all what to answer. But then something inside answered for him.
(Rhayader by Camel from the album The Snow Goose)
End of Part 1
Part 2 Linus coming soon…
Straight Talk: The Establishment Media Has Made Reasonable Political Discussion Impossible… For Decades
by nielskunze on December 20, 2016
May all deception be revealed and truth come to light.
The Establishment Media Has Made Reasonable Political Discussion Impossible… For Decades
(Note: This is not the next essay in this series that I had intended. However, circumstances have temporarily diverted my efforts. The establishment media has been a thorn in my side for as long as I can remember… so when the opportunity to challenge, ridicule and eventually tear down the whole whoring edifice came along, I jumped on it. And I’m still jumping… and stomping… and laughing all the way.)
There is nothing more important to the ruling class than controlling the flow of information among the masses. It is essential to elitism to be able to consistently dictate the social/political/economic narrative with impunity. They have been doing just this– covertly– for as long as civilization has existed, for centuries, even millennia.
My attention was first captured by candidate Trump when, early on in the campaign, he started calling out the media for being biased and dishonest. When shortly thereafter he threw most of the Washington establishment under the bus too, I was transfixed. Early in the campaign, like most everyone else, I thought “He’s not going to win… but at least he’s put out some important considerations for the mainstream public mind to consider… for the first time.” In calling out the media and systemic political corruption, he had already accomplished more good at that point than any politician had in the entirety of my life.
By the end of the summer 2016, I was convinced that he would actually win. I encapsulated that prediction rather accurately more than a month before the election in a short story published on my blog October 4th called “Election Results November 9th, 2016.” In that story, I predicted a landslide victory for Trump, but more importantly, I also predicted the hysterical reaction of the leftoid libtard zealots– it’s kinda what the story is really about. (I will admit that I thought Trump would win the popular vote too, although I didn’t say so in the piece. The ‘Russian hack’ must’ve helped Hillary in this regard– not to mention Obama giving the nudge-nudge-wink-wink to illegals two days before the election, assuring them that there would be no legal repercussions if they were to cast their votes… illegally.)
So, Trump wins. Now, let me be perfectly clear that I definitely DO have a vendetta against the establishment media. The presstitutes are the most vile and pernicious evil-doers in society. I liken their betrayal of the public trust to that of a bad cop. THEY are the ones charged with keeping the government honest, with fulfilling a vital role in keeping democracy viable and functional. It is universally agreed that without a robustly free press democracy cannot exist. They abandoned that sacred trust long ago, but absolutely solidified their unconscionable betrayal in September 2001. The establishment presstitutes have been lying and spouting pure unfiltered propaganda ever since 9/11 (and before… to a lesser degree). More than anyone, they are responsible for the gross dysfunctionality in our society today. God, I hate the establishment media!
Somewhat ironically, propaganda is actually pretty easy to spot– except for by those who consume only propaganda. Those who are informationally fed on nothing other than a diet of pure propaganda are hopelessly incapable of distinguishing obvious propaganda from fact-based reporting. That’s precisely how propaganda works: if you have nothing with which to compare a particular news narrative, or in other words, if you make no effort to look outside of the mainstream position, failing to take into consideration dissenting and opposing viewpoints, there will be little hope of correctly identifying even the most obvious propaganda.
Propaganda is most often threadbare of facts and relies heavily on incessant repetition. History has bourn out this simple mechanism of propagandizing that if you repeat a lie often enough, it will eventually be accepted in the public mind as truth. In the complete absence of a competing narrative, dissenting opinion, counter-argument and additional facts, it’s easy to imagine why propaganda is so effective… until now. The popularity of the alternative news media has at the very least brought to bear a degree of healthy skepticism on a longstanding situation.
Perhaps a couple of examples of blatant propaganda are in order. First, let’s consider the situation in Syria. Nearly the entire western establishment media narrative has been little else but naked propaganda. How could this be? There are, and have been, virtually no embedded western journalists participating and witnessing firsthand the military adventures in Syria. There’s a very good reason for this. Any western journalists caught in areas controlled by jihadists would face the very real consequence of being beheaded. So instead, western ‘journalism’ has had to rely almost exclusively upon third-party information in their reporting. The two primary sources of this third-party information have been the UN White Helmets and the SOHR (Syrian Observatory for Human Rights). The White Helmets have been discredited and shown to be dishonest in their fabricating and staging of numerous news items and events in Syria; videos from the group have been proven fraudulent. And the SOHR which has been the number one source for western news out of Syria operates out of the UK, is on the payroll of British intelligence, and is run by one guy, Rami Abdulrahman, who hasn’t been to Syria for 15 years. His contacts on the ground are all embedded with jihadists and ‘moderate rebels.’ Think about that. All of the news is coming from terrorist sources. Is it any wonder that the ‘news’ is invariably critical of Assad’s government forces and their Russian allies? Would sources embedded with terrorists be able to report anything damning about the terrorists themselves without fear of imminent beheading? Western media outlets make very little or no attempt to provide unbiased, critical reporting, dismissing any claims by the other side as purely fictitious propaganda. That’s how propaganda works: it is masterful at projecting its own shortcomings onto all detractors and naysayers… in an act of purest hypocrisy.
The second recent example of naked propaganda is the ‘Russian hacking and outright theft of the recent US election.’ Here we have the classic “according to anonymous intelligence sources…” Consumers of news have to realize that absolutely anything can follow such a phrase and remain forever unverifiable. Whatever the claims may be, they cannot be verified… in the absence of additional evidence, which is precisely what we have with this story: no names, no evidence, and not even a coherent story of exactly how the nefarious deed was accomplished– both the hacking and how it affected the election result. All we have is vague Washington gossip… but remember, if you repeat it often enough in public, eventually it will be accepted as the truth. Additionally, very compelling counter-arguments to the CIA narrative have been offered by Julian Assange and Craig Murray who were directly involved in receiving the ‘hacked’ (leaked) data from a DNC whistleblower, who have both stated unequivocally that neither the Russians– nor any other state actors– were involved. Also, former highly-placed intelligence operative at the NSA, William Binney, has stated definitively that a hack was not the case at all– as the NSA is able to trace and document any such cyber-breaches; rather it was an insider leak– perhaps Seth Rich. And finally, Congressman Nunes, chairman of the House Intelligence Committee has stated that he nor anyone else in congress has been presented with any evidence backing up the CIA’s claims. These critical and damning facts countering the CIA’s anonymous claims are reported almost nowhere within the establishment media. Again, that’s how propaganda works: stick to the established narrative and ignore any information that arises to refute it.
And if there’s still any doubt that this story is pure propaganda consider this. The entire narrative has been obviously designed to make the whole story about WHO is responsible for leaking the truth to the American public… and not at all about what that revealed truth might be. The leaked emails provided concrete proof– in their own words– of corruption and collusion among deep-pocket democrats, the DNC, the Clinton campaign and the establishment media. To Trump supporters, and much of the rest of the world, THIS is the real story, and yet the presstitute propaganda media decided to report it not at all. Isn’t that curious?
These are two very obvious examples of state-sponsored propaganda. For those news consumers who are in the habit of seeking out differing points of view on any topic, it is very easy to see through the transparency of the propaganda. However, for those who are in the habit of only listening to the singular narrative offered by the many establishment media outlets repeating the same baseless, fact-free narrative, it simply does not occur to them to question it. And so it is uncritically believed.
Democracy, property rights, the free market, and the open exchange of ideas are the fundamental interlocking bricks from which western society has been built. The establishment press however, especially in recent years, has hamstrung the minds of millions of news consumers so that there is no longer an open exchange of ideas, the free market is neither free nor conceptually understood, and property rights and democracy are just quaint notions from a bygone era. Healthy discussion and debate have been replaced with the most divisive and pernicious identity politics, driven by a relentless and biased media blatantly flaunting the agenda of divide-and-conquer. The unavoidable result of this deliberate program of mutual alienation has naturally been to create vast unbridgeable caverns of total silence between all those with differing ideologies.
I visit with my elderly parents every Sunday. They are some of the last remnants of a dwindling demographic– the only demographic (over 70) where the majority still embraces the old establishment media as their primary (and often only) source for news. All discussion of a political nature has been banned in my parents’ house… and understandably so. Reasonable political discussion has become all but impossible.
My parents are only aware of the propaganda narrative. The only facts which exist– the only ones that CAN exist in their minds– are the easily-parroted talking points supporting the spoon-fed opinions doled out on the major news networks. To them, there are no valid opposing viewpoints; they simply don’t exist, and anyone expressing an alternative opinion (like me) is suffering from the delusion of ‘conspiracy theories’ and ‘fake news.’ On the occasions where I’ve sought to bring additional facts to bear on the popular (among old fogies) viewpoints, I’ve been consistently shot down before any meaningful discussion can ensue. Here’s what my Dad usually says: “Oh, c’mon! I’ve never heard of that. Where’d you get that? Off the internet?” And that’s it; the implication is crystal clear. There are no additional facts; there are no opposing viewpoints with any validity; CNN said so. End of story.
I could try to spend hours updating and informing their position with uncountable and verifiable pertinent facts, but in the end, they will simply reject them– presumably because the TV news anchors have already done all of the critical thinking required. Why should they waste their time with this nonsense of hearing the other sides of the debate? There’s only one side of the debate that matters: the right one. And my parents– who ironically both came out of NAZI Germany– are steadfastly convinced that the right opinion is always issued and fully vetted by the establishment media. Everyone else is obviously a crackpot.
My visits with my parents are, unsurprisingly, rather quiet. Last Sunday, they brought up the issue of climate change… and how Trump will be the death of us all. I didn’t say a word; I couldn’t say a word. To even suggest the possibility that there just might be another side to the story would have me branded as an idiotic Trump supporter and a hopeless denier of reality– yeah, you know, the ‘reality’ that everybody knows without question… because questioning reality outside of what the ‘authorities’ have approved is automatically stupid and a waste of everybody’s time. Yup, it’s pretty sad.
But I bet there are many among my readers who can relate all too well with what I’ve described here. It is exceedingly common– this inability to communicate with each other. I don’t much enjoy talking to a brick wall… and I bet you don’t either.
As I outlined in the first essay of this series, it really comes down to open-mindedness as opposed to closed-mindedness. There is only one external cure for closed-mindedness. Internally, the cure is ever-available to anyone who chooses to suddenly consider alternative possibilities lying outside of their current beliefs; the mind opens from the inside out as a matter of choice– the choice to learn. In the absence of such a choice, only reality can break the lock of closed-mindedness– and that is invariably an ugly process. It happens when reality begins to present events and circumstances which glaringly, and finally undeniably, fall outside of the propaganda narrative. Through unexpected events, the closed mind is shattered; reality and the vested narrative diverge too sharply; they can no longer be reconciled. A total breakdown ensues.
Thankfully, the world is changing rapidly– despite my parents’ oft-repeated phrase “Oh, that’ll never change.” And it appears that the majority has finally rejected the propaganda media in favour of their own research and critical thinking. Three recent surveys conducted by Fox, The Washington Post and The Washington Times, all found that most Americans did NOT believe that the Russians influenced the election.
I was happy when Trump won as the self-proclaimed destroyer of the establishment media. But initially I saw a major problem: How was Trump going to nail the last nail into the coffin of the dying media without looking like a heavy-handed fascist dictator? He can’t just shut them down or revoke their licenses. But fortunately, it appears that Trump doesn’t really have to lift a finger. Trump and the public at large need only to continue selling rope to the media… lots and lots of rope… for they are apparently quite determined to hang themselves with their ever-more-outrageous bias and lies. Their credibility turns to hysteria by the day… and all the open-minded folk can see it rather clearly. Only the closed-minded echo-chamber folk can’t yet see that there’s any problem at all– except that the rest of the world appears to have gone bat-shit crazy, holding all these impolite and bigoted views that don’t agree with the evening news.
The revelations are coming thick and furious. And in the end it doesn’t really matter what we each believe as individuals. It’s much more about whether our minds are open to a reality peeling off its encrusted layers like a homeless stripper, and being able to adequately adapt to the barrage of revelations… or if we continually choose to shut our minds from all alternative possibility… and await the shattering moment when reality triumphs over such insane rigidity.
All I ask is that you just consider the possibilities… it’s all about the possibilities…
by nielskunze on December 1, 2016
“The masses are revolting,” she said haughtily, turning up her nose.
“The masses are revolting,” he said with eager anticipation, rolling up his sleeves.
The Expiry of Deception
Once the lie has been accepted– internalized– that which was so OBVIOUS serves to render one as OBLIVIOUS.
Deception is built from lies.
Lies beget more lies whenever they’re challenged… lest the deception collapses altogether. There really is no other way to maintain a longstanding deception than through the compounding of lies– incidentally, much like interest on a debt.
At each fresh challenge to a deception, the placating lies become more tenuous, outlandish, absurd… and unwieldy.
A mass deception is like a vast house of cards, continually under renovation. New lies are inserted periodically in order to prop up the overall deception, but with each new addition the whole structure loses cohesion… credibility… its elegance of original design.
Therefore, even very clever deceptions are bound to erode over time, even under the most taciturn– but unyielding– scrutiny.
We live in a world built from lies. Vastly sprawling and ensnaring deceptions have been layered throughout every institution of western culture. Politics, economics, education, law, and all of their sub-categories have been founded in fundamental deceptions… that have historically lain relatively unchallenged for generations. For verification of this we need but ask whether the People’s needs have been well served by the politics of the day, the economic status quo, the state of our statist education, or the moral injustices of the law. Each must answer for himself.
Collectively, we’ve reached a tipping point, where a critical percentage of our modern generation have grown uncomfortable and unaccepting of the freshest rounds of lies used to maintain the old deceptions. We’re simply not buying it anymore. It seems there’s a limit to how many unanswered questions the average person can hold… before demanding more credible answers.
Hence, we have entered a time of collapse. And it’s likely a big one… and this is very important to remember during these trying times.
We can no longer evaluate world events in isolation and hope to make any sense from them. For instance, politics– like the recent election of Trump– will not make sense in old paradigm (deceptive) terms. The day-to-day politicking for the upcoming year can only make sense in the context of the meta-story– that being the unravelling of longstanding deceptions. Furthermore, the integrated and complex nature of our global community will cause events taking place in one realm of public endeavour bleeding through to other realms of public concern.
The analogy of a vast house of cards will be useful to remember. It is quite unlikely that those who have built and maintained the primary deceptions driving the World-Devouring Machine will voluntarily admit to anything. Their modus operandi so far has been to lie and deny at every turn… with each new lie adding another card to the shaky house of deceit. At the moment of free-fall collapse– coming soon– it will all come down very quickly. Expect there to be plans of distraction and coverup implemented immediately as all is laid bare. And remember that it will likely be very ugly… by all of our old standards.
But crisis is opportunity. The old order MUST collapse before something better may take its place. And it will be up to us to insist upon and implement that which is to follow. Chaos is an opportunity for both the manipulators as well as the manipulated… so stay sane! Your reasonableness and penetrating insight will be sorely needed.
My main point is that this all smacks of inevitability. We are in the final stages of the old game… and the rules themselves are changing, so it may be very difficult to discern exactly what is going on at every move. The overall process is one of revelation. Expect events to proceed according to the adage that whatever needs to be revealed will be revealed. Whose need? Humanity’s.
In decades past, the average person in western society didn’t need to concern himself too much with specific politics, or the day-to-day dealings of the economy, or the general state of education… because for generations we were insulated from the immediate effects of these to a large extent. No matter what we each perceived as being ‘wrong’ with the state of the world, we were nevertheless able to largely ignore it and still continue on with our preferred insular lives and views. This is what’s changed… in particular, the recent US election has clearly demonstrated how the unchallenged ideologies of large sections of the population can and will over time affect the lives of everyone. The ability to shield ourselves from the effects of toxic beliefs has greatly diminished. We are being forced to re-engage with the system– not to fix it, but to see to its expedient and thorough demise.
A critical mass among humanity’s collective are fed up with deceit, obfuscation, misdirection, denial and avoidance. Whether consciously or not, we have collaboratively formed the intent to finally know the truth of the reality of our experience. It is this collective intent which is providing relentless pressure for all of the deceptions to self-destruct and reveal their utter emptiness. We are finally demanding nothing less than the truth.
For those who have long seen this time of collapse coming and have adequately prepared themselves, this year promises to be only slightly scary, rather exhilarating, and quite hilarious. For all those who will be facing these myriad deceptions head on with no foresight or preamble, it will likely just be downright frightening! There should be ample opportunity for helping each other, though. Humans tend to be pretty amazing when they’re really challenged.
Don’t expect Donald Trump to provide much of a reprieve… or conversely, don’t expect him to suddenly turn into a Hitler-esque big-meanie-poopy-pants. The meta-story of what’s really going on will be so much bigger than any one person, government or plan. At best, we can each work to mitigate our own and each other’s suffering during these challenges.
Once the dust settles and the smoke clears, I’ll see you on the other side; we’ll roll up our sleeves amongst the ruins and the rubble… and get to work on the exciting and new.
In the meantime, for this tumultuous year of 2017, please join me in my daily affirmation, prayer, slogan, intent that…
MAY ALL DECEPTION BE REVEALED AND TRUTH COME TO LIGHT. That is all.
(The next essay in this series will focus on our individual challenges with maintaining some semblance of sanity during insane times– utilizing the template from the previous essay of closed-mindedness versus open-mindedness.)
by nielskunze on November 23, 2016
The lines have been drawn.
We live in a society now that the phrase “drop and rebuild the tranny” means radically different things to different groups. To the geniuses on the socio-political left this is beyond the pale of micro-aggression, expressing ignorance and bigotry, having to do with insensitive terminology surrounding gender-reassignment surgery: “Unacceptable!” But even for the dimmest rednecks on the right, “drop and rebuild the tranny” simply refers– as it always has– to getting greasy, and fixing the damn car.
How has it come to this?
From my unique and novel vantage ensconced in the emerging noosphere (collective consciousness– which is the evolution of Jung’s Collective Unconscious), trends in human consciousness development have become rather easy to discern. At the dire risk of oversimplification– and I do love literary risk– our known history thus far, or at least throughout that portion of it referred to as the history of civilization, the collective unconscious of humanity has succumbed to a singular overriding trend: centralization… and so too, naturally, has the society we’ve built.
As a species, we have continually tended toward group-think.
Human individuals have a strong inclination, or even need, to belong to identity groups, to be part of a herd, or many different herds. Our psychological security seems to heavily depend upon identifying ourselves as belonging to certain ideological classes and sub-categories. Historically, these various groups within the human collective have structured themselves as hive-minds. The net result of group-think is a voluntary transfer of personal power from the individual to the herd.
Hive-minds exhibit a uniformity of thought through shared values, ideas and activities. They very strongly tend to demand a hierarchical internal structure, where leaders and exalted individuals occupy high-ranking positions and are primarily responsible for rigidly defining the ideology adhered to by the rest of the group members, and thus wielding their aggregated power. Hive-minds are extremely cultish, and indeed they are predominantly responsible for what we term “culture” in our modern society. Hive-minds have dominated the subconscious terrain of humanity for at least the last ten-thousand years (if the chronology of conventional history is reliable– unfortunately, it’s not… but that’s a different essay).
And now, suddenly, that’s changing– at least, for many.
We’ve recently turned the blind corner of history. The hive-minds are breaking down… mainly because they don’t offer the same (false) security that they once did. This breakdown in the false sense of security traditionally offered by group-think is due to persistent wrongheadedness.
“But which ones, specifically, are wrongheaded?”
All of them. But how can that be? Someone, or some group, surely, must’ve gotten it right! No. In order for that to be true we would need to ascribe to a meta-belief in the One True Belief System. It doesn’t exist; it can’t exist. Simply, there is no one, or no group, who is in possession of the One True Belief System which completely and consistently describes reality as it is. Each and every last one of us is wrong to some degree in what we believe about reality. And that is the true nature of belief.
Allow me to return now to my opening statement: The lines have been drawn.
Humanity seems more divided now than ever before. Ironically, as the lines of diversity have become rather blurred in recent times, due largely to cultural melting pots in western society by design and imposition, there seems to persist an ever-deepening divide between various ideological camps. And the divide appears more and more to be irreconcilable.
But the line which divides us– today– is not drawn along ideological fissures. Differences in ideology is what separates us superficially, but the real underlying difference is something much more basic than that, more fundamental… and more far-reaching.
Our population is divided primarily– fundamentally– between open-mindedness and closed-mindedness… along the entire social spectrum.
It is not the content of our beliefs which determines our open-mindedness. It is not even the quality of those beliefs. Rather, it is the degree to which we are personally invested in a specific belief structure or system which inversely determines the openness, and indeed the health, of our minds.
Closed-mindedness is heavily invested in a particular set of beliefs… quite often for an entire lifetime. Closed-mindedness asserts that it has accurately apprehended the One True Belief System. Because closed-mindedness claims to already know, it does not seek out new and challenging information. And when such new information crosses the path of a closed-minded individual, he will either reject the new information outright without any meaningful investigation, or he will distort the new information in order to fit it into his already-existing belief structure– even when that new data is logically incompatible with the old structure.
Open-mindedness is ever-expanding into the realm of possibility and potential. An open mind is characterized by the only sure knowledge that ultimately it does not know. Open-mindedness recognizes the Infinite Mystery of this human existence and embraces its unsolvability. All incoming data to an open mind is held in potential and evaluated in terms of the probability of its being true.
An open mind is naturally inclined toward ‘Big Picture’ awareness, wherein it is accepted that the Big Picture will never be completely fleshed out. A closed mind believes that its well-defined big picture view– already complete– is the only possibility.
The limited creativity of a closed mind will be imitative and repetitive, whereas an open mind is capable of great originality and startling creativity.
Readers of Carlos Castaneda may recall don Juan’s explication of the Tonal and the Nagual. The Tonal is ego-based consciousness, wrapped up in identity and self-importance, and can be likened to a tiny island in a vast sea (of consciousness). The Nagual is more akin to undifferentiated consciousness– though it has structure, it is much less rigid and loosely defined. It is the vast ocean of All Possibility. A shape-shifting shaman is more identified with the Nagual, the vast ocean, while most civilized modern humans identify themselves with the tiny island of the Tonal.
As don Juan explained to his apprentice Carlos, the inventory of the island (Tonal), the specific items it contained (thoughts, ideas, beliefs, ideologies, etc.) were of little importance… and they could be exchanged and replaced throughout one’s lifetime without any significant consequence. Possibilities, potentials, and probabilities however, were like a mist hovering above the oceanic womb of creation. By identifying oneself with the items of the Tonal, only repetition was possible. Only by self-defining oneself through the nebulous potential of All Possibility is a warrior free to create, enter and inhabit a new realm of human endeavour.
And that’s where we are, right now, on the cusp of a new realm of human endeavour. Its manifestation in the immediate future will fall to the open-minded among us.
We will first witness and accelerate the collapse and unravelling of the old order. We have entered the age of the Breakdown of Centralized Authority. We will witness the disintegration of all the hive-minds established and populated during the preceding millennia. Those who are able, once freed from the false security of group-think, will immediately begin to place tremendous value on their own ability to think critically, independently… becoming sovereign in their mentality, and reclaiming their long-estranged personal (creative) power.
The times immediately ahead will be rough. It may be helpful to remember that there is little to be gained in arguing over the inventory of our respective islands (specific beliefs). The content of our beliefs is secondary to our ability to hold multiple possibilities in mind as we enter these revelatory times. Ideally, we are to become the embodiments of All Possibility. And it is the degree to which we are each successful in this quest that we may accurately measure our mental health.
Closed-mindedness will be the criteria for culling the herd– the entire herd. After these tumultuous times, especially this upcoming year of 2017, only free thinking sovereign individuals will be left standing to carry the human race forward. The rest will be stranded on their own self-selected islands of stubborn self-importance, arrogance and self-righteousness… as the rising tide of new possibilities drowns them.
It is extremely important to understand this critical distinction and to cultivate immediately the ability to hold all of reality in mind as potential and possibility, rather than choosing to reject it piecemeal unexamined and unconsidered from a place of arrogant certainty or from the petty fear of gullibility. The hardest thing for the closed-minded is to see their own closed-mindedness. Many are affable and tolerant in their attitudes and behaviour, but the times that are now upon us will test that tolerance and attempt to pierce the closed bubble of non-awareness. Beware! (Especially be wary of the appeal to authority, confirmation bias and false dichotomies– more on that later.)
The most difficult thing for a closed mind to perceive is its own hypocrisy. For example, the closed-minded will attempt to meet the challenge of propaganda through imposing censorship, utterly failing to see the blatant hypocrisy of this. The open-minded will immediately see through the whole farce easily. The old control mechanisms will no longer work… yet every attempt will still be made to contain the awakening. It will not be contained.
We have entered a unique moment in time. Events on the global stage will proceed now with an unstoppable momentum of their own. No person or group will be able to stop or even significantly slow the unravelling we are to witness. Society, as we have known it, is collapsing. Those who take the most superficial view (i.e. the one presented on CNN) will perceive only unmitigated destruction, whereas those who’ve learned to see beneath the surface of things will perceive the dawning of a new renaissance.
In this first essay, I have offered a very simple lens through which to view the enormity of what is immediately coming. Open-mindedness versus closed-mindedness is the simplest reduction I can offer that gives insight and direction for those who would keep their eyes and hearts open. It is a theme to which I will return again and again in future essays in this series… for, the health of our individual minds is of paramount importance.
So, for now, please remember that it is not the specific content of our minds that matters most (what we believe in any given moment); rather, it is the basic quality of our minds’ own structure– its openness to new, unexplored possibility– that will determine our individual ability to move forward. Try not to expend yourselves in surface arguments; just try to acknowledge the possibility of what your ‘opponent’ may be suggesting. The Big Picture will necessarily require the participation of many, and even then it will take an eternity.
Be in wonderment, awe, inspiration and follow your natural curiosity. It’s time for us to stop living like cows and to embrace our full humanity.
We’ll talk again soon.
by nielskunze on October 26, 2016
Truth seekers are a peculiar lot. Their peculiarities stem from fundamental misunderstandings of the ‘object’ they seek.
Truth isn’t what you think it is… ever; it is beyond the thinker.
Truth is absolute and objective… but should not be thought of as such. Truth underpins the entire universe of our experience… but remains unfathomably mysterious to the one who experiences.
We are now in the time of the Great Revealing. But what is being revealed? Truth? No! Quite the contrary, what is being revealed is deception.
Deceptions are outing themselves… because of new agreements within the collective consciousness of humanity (the noosphere). Deception simply won’t work like it used to. Just ask your grifter friends how they’re faring lately. The cons are collapsing… even for the pros.
Now, does that mean that truth naturally arises where deception falls away? Not at all.
There are many layers to the World Onion. And once they’re all peeled away, all that’s generally left are watery eyes and stinky fingers.
You see, truth seekers, truth can’t be found. It can’t be bought… or sold. It can’t be traded or stolen. But it can be lived… embodied… demonstrated.
Truth isn’t a thing… with properties and attributes. And yet, it is discernible, identifiable. It’s not an object, and yet it’s the only worthy objective life has to offer.
Truth is the eternity standing behind God The Manifest. It is the Quantum Field of All Possibility, the Godhead, Brahmin, Undifferentiated Consciousness… the Everything And Nothing. It is a peerless mystery.
Truth seekers, my friends, so many get lost in the happy dream of dreaming themselves awake. It is a misunderstanding of truth. If you think it is a destination, it is impossible to arrive.
Each of us, as holographic fractals of the whole expression of truth, has a unique subjective relationship with truth. This is what we have to work with… eternally. Once you think you’ve ‘got it,’ you’ve missed it entirely. You ARE it… if you can get out of your own way.
So what is written here? Very important nonsense! Love the Mystery as you love yourself, knowing that the Eternal Mystery is unsolvable and that it is your task to solve it nevertheless.
by nielskunze on October 26, 2016
Grounds Security Officers responded this afternoon to an incident on the White House lawn involving a plump elderly woman dressed like Kim Jong-un. Security officers were acting on a tip that she had at least 200 pounds of crack in her turquoise pants. Upon investigation the officers found the woman squatting in the middle of the White House lawn in order to move her bowels, and officers immediately confirmed the reported ample crack.
As they moved to surround and arrest the woman, she begrudgingly explained through grunts and groans “I’m just so full of shit!” and the woman was immediately identified as Secretary Clinton. As the candidate finished up her pressing business, White House Security suddenly reported “Shots fired!” which was quickly retracted when it was found that Mrs. Clinton’s shit– unlike the turds of other hominids– was not tapered, and therefore caused her asshole to slam shut… loudly.
This was followed by polite applause issuing from a small coterie of sycophantic supporters and a member of the embedded press licking Madame Secretary’s ample crack unreasonably clean.
The candidate seemed genuinely perplexed when White House staff informed her that shitting in the middle of the White House lawn wasn’t actually permitted. “At least not during the light of day!” she cackled with a wink… and then proceeded to laugh in an uproarious and most inappropriate way. Trained seals barked and slapped their fins together right on cue.
When the rest of the mainstream media arrived, responding to the bogus call of shots fired, they were not disappointed to find an impressive, attention-grabbing, presidential coiler standing tall and proud above the manicured grass instead. Anderson Cooper was handed the scoop of a lifetime.
The bewildered Hillary explained that “It was an honest mistake,” and that she couldn’t specifically recall having taken the majestic dump anyway… claiming that it was perhaps “just another Wikileaks dump.”
A member of her embedded press corp then explained that he had luckily caught the whole thing on video… which was promptly followed by his head spontaneously, and for no apparent reason, exploding, distributing his brains unevenly over the delicate circuitry of the camera, rendering it inoperable… or at the very least, super gross, and nobody wanted to touch it anymore. (It was ruled a suicide.)
Secretary Clinton laughed… and laughed… and NBC laughed along with her, deciding right then to spin the story as just another example of the candidate’s clearly superior sense of humor.
The crew from ABC managed to film the splendid fecal monument before Anderson Cooper could jealously scoop it up all for himself. Their lead story was slightly more conditional… that if Mrs. Clinton had indeed pinched such a fine loaf, it was surely ample proof of her robust health and her fitness to sit– or squat– in the Oval Office. They praised her defecatory offering as being of superlative texture and consistency, and as of having a not-so-unpleasant fragrance but rather difficult to adequately describe. The panel discussed it for the next eight minutes and decided that the Clinton shit– if indeed it was hers– was definitely of the proper character befitting the general odor of American politicking.
CNN, the Clinton News Network, took a completely different angle– mostly because Anderson refused to share the scoop with his colleagues. They were forced to chase down the original “200 pounds of crack” tip, spending several hours on the story before realizing that it was all just a bad joke. They ran the story anyway… and were nominated for a Pulitzer.
Update: Madonna and Amy Schumer, also on the scene, provided oral sex to anyone who paid them even the slightest bit of attention. Having thrown the dog a bone, one recipient generously remarked to Madonna “You’ve got the whitest teeth I’ve ever come across!”
by nielskunze on October 15, 2016
“Sorry kids, I had to destroy the world in order to keep you well fed.”
“I shall indenture myself to the slave-master most likely to release me from bondage.”
“Be sure to adequately infect the children!”
I desperately wish to live among self-empowered, intelligent, thoughtful people… you know, adults. But alas, I live among delicate snowflakes destined to become just so much dirty meltwater.
What happened to the human Spirit?
What happened to the human Heart?
What happened to the human Mind?
They are all tightly bundled into that Holy Grail/False Prophet called the right to vote.
The right to vote is forcibly marketed to us, relentlessly, as the system’s greatest lever for individual and collective self-expression… with the sure promise that our participation will be amply rewarded. But that is wholly predicated upon the assumption that the system is functional, that it is coherent, that it is honest, that it is sane.
It is not! How can anyone any longer doubt that?
It’s called representational democracy. (Yes, I know asshole, it’s a constitutional republic– in the USA. We all know that it’s nothing of the sort in actuality, so shut the fuck up.) Does anyone feel well-represented by this cycle’s crop of bloviating rot?
Do these cabbage heads really represent a cogent response to your deepest concerns for the future? For the future of your children? Really?
And this has been my favourite, most persistent question of all: Is this the best we can do?
Holy bananaless republics, Batman! I sure the fuck hope not!
Let’s get down to basics. (This will be strictly for review purposes only, as I’ve covered this at length previously.)
NONE of us currently lives in a functional democracy. This is verifiable and irrefutable. (I’m trying to discontinue using the word ‘undeniable’ because I’ve found that the delicate snowflakes shaped like human beings in this world are frustratingly still able to deny anything, despite its obvious irrefutability.)
A democracy– any kind of democracy, asshole– which claims to derive its power solely from the People (by the People, of the People, for the People blah blah blah) necessarily relies upon an informed electorate. In simplest terms, if the People are not accurately and completely informed of their government’s policies and actions domestically and abroad, then it is simply– irrefutably— impossible for such a ‘democracy’ to be functional or to have integrity. Period.
When there is any faction of government which operates without meaningful public oversight, when any government agency operates outside or above the law, proper democracy is impossible… and covert tyranny takes its place. This is perhaps the most unrecognized fact of western ‘civilization’– the true nature of the World-Devouring Machine.
We ALL reside in covert tyrannies. We are irrefutably manipulated into consenting to a world condition not of our conscious considered choosing. How can this be cogently argued?
I have long ago learned the complete futility of trying to present anything with even the tiniest whiff of conspiracy to the delicate snowflake crowd. For snowflakes, a snowstorm (snow-job) is the only conspiracy possible. So let’s take a peek at the irrefutable proof of our non-existent democracies.
It would be easy to misconstrue the reason why I included this brief video clip. Hint: it’s not because I wish to demonstrate Hillary’s obvious ineligibility for holding public office. The point of this essay, after all, is that it doesn’t much matter who holds the office of president. Presidents don’t write the script. They are merely paid actors belonging to an agenda beyond their control and comprehension.
The video clip introduces, for the first time into public awareness and discourse, the existence of ORCON classified intelligence. As mentioned during the hearing, ORCON refers to ‘originator controlled.’ Looking further into what this actually means, we find that this classification of intelligence report stands above any and all grades or categories of standard security clearance. In fact, there is no one within the elected governmental structure who holds a security clearance ranking high enough to oversee ORCON materials. Such a ranking simply does not exist anywhere within the governmental system. Only the originator of the classified material may decide who has permission to be ‘read into’ the contents of such materials. What this means is that the originator of such intelligence can effectively tell the president to “Fuck off” should he or she ask to see such materials. By the very definition of ORCON classified material, it is impossible for there to be any meaningful oversight by elected officials of projects and operations designated as ORCON.
The public is tacitly asked to simply trust that whatever these projects and operations entail they are in and for the best interests of the electorate. I have to grant that it is possible that such black-ops are really in the public’s interest, but the probability of such would entail quite the astonishing level of naïvety that I am forced to regard it as virtually impossible.
Presidents themselves have repeatedly informed the public of the Deep State, the Shadow Government, the Military-Industrial Complex, the Hidden Hand, etc. Woodrow Wilson in his memoirs lamented ceding control of American economic affairs to the privately-owned banking cartel known as the Federal Reserve in 1913 via the Federal Reserve Act. Eisenhower, upon leaving office, felt compelled to warn the public about the pernicious and avaricious nature of the Military-Industrial Complex, who were already in the 1950s used to calling their own shots (pun intended) with little to no meaningful opposition or oversight. Then Kennedy, following quickly on the heels of Eisenhower, delivered a speech at The Press Club about a “far-reaching conspiracy” that he was determined to take on, expose and uproot before the end of his presidency. Well, we all know how that turned out. (Delicate snowflakes will cling to the lone-gunman narrative like a child clinging to the ‘reality’ of Santa Claus in an irrational refusal to grow up.)
Maybe presidents are all actually comedians; they like to joke about the usurpation of democratic principles and the resulting societal dysfunction. Fucking hilarious! Good one, guys! In addition though, there have actually been numerous congressmen and senators who have seen fit to similarly go on record exposing the very same reality of the democratic sham perpetrated and maintained by the Deep State. I invite you to look further into it.
Elections are very bad theatre… for ugly people, as the saying goes. But it still serves a vital societal purpose. And that purpose is to acquire the consent of the governed.
And now we’re getting to the crux of the matter.
Every ‘democratic’ election is a covert referendum. The question being asked in the referendum is: Do you consent to be governed by the existing system? Anyone who shows up to register their vote– regardless of the candidate(s) selected– is casting a Yes-vote. “Yes, I consent to being governed by the existing system… at least until the next time I am offered the opportunity to vote again.” A No-vote is ‘registered’ by simply refusing to vote, thus withdrawing one’s consent from the farcical system. Even if you write in a selection outside of the candidates officially offered, you are still giving clear and binding consent to being obedient/subservient to the misrepresentational system.
Ironically, and in blatant contradiction to the obvious truth, agreeing to participate by casting our vote is aggressively marketed as ‘raising our voices,’ or ‘standing up’ for something or other, or– my favourite– ‘making a difference.’ By thusly granting consent to the inept, secretive and corrupted system we are effectively giving away our personal power to innovate, to rectify, to heal our broken societies ourselves (the ONLY way such may be accomplished… you know grassroots, common understanding, and all that). Even Bernie Sanders during his recent campaigning explained that ultimately it didn’t matter who the People voted into the White House, for if grassroots support for fundamental change wasn’t prevalent, vociferous and relentless, then even he, Bernie Sanders, would be utterly powerless to affect such desired change solely through the agency of the presidency.
Presidents are far less important than self-empowered, clear-headed individuals.
“A house divided against itself cannot long stand”… or something like that. If you’re an activist, gunning for systemic reform, how in the world can you register your vote in a grossly dysfunctional system, granting it your clear– albeit tacit– consent, and then waste your energy railing against the very system you’ve just openly supported– and ever hope to succeed? It’s a schizophrenic strategy at best!
And that’s really my point. The system is masterful at divide-and-conquer. Everywhere we look in our modern society we see it in action. Our very systems of law and governance are deeply adversarial. Economics are fiercely competitive, and education serves the purposes of perpetuating the strife– attempting to give youngsters a trifling competitive edge… so they don’t end up being hopeless losers like me! But the primary division, the one that fundamentally causes all the rest, is the division within ourselves. If we maintain a shred of individual moral conscience, and yet delegate our most sacred right for self-determination to inept bureaucracies, we are fundamentally divided against ourselves and our own best interests. How can anyone still pretend that our elected officials have the best interests of the world’s peoples at heart? Do they even have hearts? (Ask the Afghanis, Syrians, the Iraqis, the people of Libya, Yemen, etc.)
Intention is a real thing… well, I guess only if you believe that your own mind is real. (Beyond the sacredness of their own pathetic comfort zones, I really don’t know what snowflakes believe.) Intention is the creative force behind choice– the choice to determine the future world we’d like to live in and leave to our children. Consent is secondary to intent; in the absence of one’s own creative force called intent, consent takes its place, and we are bound by that to which we agree… a binding contract written in our own subconscious.
Perhaps this is all a bit too Castanedian for your tastes, but it’s not just woo-woo spirituality or speculative philosophy; it’s verifiable basic psychology. It’s the way it works, and I implore you to check it out for yourself. If our collective goal is to create a better, saner, sustainable world culture, then such would require the full force and power of each individual’s clear intent to be claimed and exercised in such a direction unfettered. Those who currently hold the reins of ‘power’ will not grant the plebes the opportunity to vote for even a slight diminishment of their inordinately centralized power. To believe otherwise is painfully naïve, hopelessly foolish and downright stupid. If you can’t see it, and I recognize that many still cannot, all I ask is that you keep your eyes, your hearts, and your minds open, bringing all of the awareness and intelligence you can muster to bear on the world situation as it continues to spiral out of control in blatant disregard for your and my better judgment.
If you could just summon the courage to stop supporting the ugly tragic comedy that is called democracy– but is irrefutably nothing of the sort– then I would be proud to stand beside you shoulder-to-shoulder, rolling up our sleeves to finally tackle the challenges before us in the only way possible: as free-thinking, caring individuals.
Casting your vote for who should become president is nothing more than deciding the shade of lipstick to be applied to the pig being trotted out to an exceedingly gullible public.
Freedom can be terrifying indeed, but it’s also commensurately rewarding… and your children will thank you for your courage and fortitude.
I do realize that encouraging others to refrain from voting goes directly against all of our societal conditioning and programming. I further realize that hardly anyone will heed my advice in this regard. But you know the phrase ‘the right side of history’…? Well, in generations hence– if we in fact survive this tumultuous time– the retrospective eyes and considerations of our children’s children, I am confident, will not look unfavourably upon one such as myself who encouraged extricating ourselves from an obviously failed system during the painful decline of empire, to initiate grassroots solutions based in common understanding and individual moral conscience, over apathetically acquiescing to an obvious fraud. Those who currently maintain confidence in the system’s ability to self-correct will be shown to have lacked even the most basic understanding of the challenges we face as living human beings.
(And BTW, I don’t have a horse in this race. I’m Canadian, but everything I say about the good ol’ USA equally applies to my own country. It’s just that everything is exaggerated to the nth degree in american politics… all part and parcel of being exceptional and indispensable, of course. Canada, like every western democracy, has its own secret factions of government which I am simply not permitted to know anything of significance about. For instance, most Canadians don’t even know that our primary spook network is the CSIS. “Oh c’mon, you aren’t going to tell me that nice polite Canadians are engaged in secret nefarious activities, are you?” Native American genocide anyone? You know, the residential schools thingy. Oh, but former PM Harper had that whole Truth and Reconciliation deal… all out in the open now, right? Yes, of course, the shameful whitewash… many decades after the fact, hardly any witnesses still alive. Had it been left up to regular Canadians do we really believe that we would have consciously chosen to destroy the traditional culture, to break the Spirit of the Indian, to break the hearts of thousands of families, and if any of the little buggers gave us significant trouble it was alright to take ‘em out back and put a bullet in their heads? Would regular folk have so easily approved of the mass graves? No, of course not. We need government for that… and all they need is our consent. Well, I don’t mind one bit saying “Fuck off!”)
by nielskunze on October 4, 2016
He won??? He fucking won?!
Dean was sitting in front of the computer, slack-jawed and drooling, the spittle of naive incredulity plummeting to his pajamaed lap. It was November 9th, 2016 and the morning’s coffee was brewing in the kitchen while Dean had cheerfully gone to the computer to learn of Hillary’s final margin of victory in the election spectacle of the century. But… but… how could it be? Hillary hadn’t won at all! Despite the steady assurances of months of polling, despite the insouciant media and their specialized training as sycophantic barking seals, slapping their fins together incessantly for dear Hillary, despite the twisted mangled wreck of ‘progressive’ common sense everywhere– despite all that, in and to the face of all reasonable expectation, the results were a stinging slap… to everything Dean had ever stood for– or rather, to everything Dean had imagined himself to stand for.
The Donald, the Big D, the Giant Douche had won the presidency… and they were calling it a landslide. Dean was incapable of understanding such a result… at all.
(There was a great deal which Dean was incapable of understanding… at all.)
“He won???” Dean had to say it out loud to himself in a begging, whiny, sniveling tone, as though that might somehow still undo the reality of it. Dean could not, however, bring himself to complete the old Eddie Murphy quote aloud– the ‘He fucking won?’ part. Dean would never utter such profanity aloud. He could silently think it to himself; in fact, ‘fuck’ was one of his most favouritest words within the private vacuity of his mind. But out in the world, where people shared their run-of-the-mill ideas and opinions responsibly, Dean used surrogates like ‘frick’ and ‘fiddlesticks’ and ‘shoot’– extensively. Dean was scrupulous about his personal political correctness.
He had to be. Dean was a professor, the dean actually, of the Political Science department of a major liberal college. Oops, the word ‘liberal’ was currently unfashionable, so let’s make that a major ‘progressive’ college. (Presumably, the word ‘liberal’ was misleading in that it could mistakenly be thought of as having something to do with liberty… and well, in this day and age, that’s just silly.)
Accepting the promotion, four years ago, to become the dean– when his actual name was also Dean– well that, that was about the cleverest thing professor Dean had ever been a part of… and he wasn’t shy about pointing out the hilarity of it to each and every new person he met. He seemed to genuinely enjoy the forced snickers and the effort required for each polite smile received. Somehow, it made him feel good about himself. And that’s all that fricken mattered, gosh-darn-it!
So, of course, Dean, the dean of the Poli-Sci department– haha– was all about political correctness. As far as he was concerned, political correctness was the greatest export to have come out of Canada since Justin Bieber or Nickelback. Oh, but now there was that new prime minister of theirs, the other Justin, who even on a really bad hair day was drastically more fuckable than Hillary had ever been. (Right Bill?) Canada seemed to really have it going on in Dean’s honest estimation… much in keeping with the vapid opinions of faggot retards everywhere.
Ah, political correctness, the ultimate civilizing principle; it was something marking a certain degree of social development, an important milestone alongside the sacredness of comfort zones and maintaining property values. For Dean it was nothing less than the meaning of life. After all, it was so simple, and logical. If you wanted to eliminate evil forever in a civilized society, all you had to do was ban all hate-speech. What is hate-speech? Well, anything that could be construed as hurtful, of course. Easy-peazy. Fuck yeah! thought Dean. “Frick yeah!” he said pretentiously out loud.
Oh, but wait. He’d already forgotten the lamentability of the present moment. Poor Hillary had lost. He needed to do something in order to process such a result, but really didn’t have a clue as to what he might do. How could any rational person make sense of something like that? He had cast his vote last evening in sure confidence in the inherent goodness of the world, or at least in the exceptional goodness of his fellow americans. Generations of redundant programming to domesticate every expression of ingenuity, imagination or inspiration, and forever pandering to the lowest common denominator among the masses– an education system fully committed to that– how could it possibly fail to deliver exceptionalism? We are a nation of exceptionals, he affirmed to himself. And then he got up from the computer momentarily to fetch himself a coffee; you know, to kick-start the old brain…
As he stood, he immediately noticed the handi-bus rolling by his window as it did every morning… a little more dilapidated, a little more crowded, but still a real inspiration… in a nihilistic sorta way. He hurried to get that coffee from the kitchen.
When he sat back down at the computer, steaming mug in hand, his first thought was that maybe there had been a problem with the overall voter turnout… but the early indications had been good. He pulled up an article from CNN. Nope. It said it right there: ‘best voter turnout ever.’ Nearly everyone, it seemed, had come out to cast his– or her– lot within the circus tent of electoral frivolity. And they’d overwhelmingly chosen the clown! (Most had had quite enough of the freak-show Hildebeast long ago. They’d given clear signals all along, but no one had noticed, least of all, Dean.)
Yes, professor Dean was actually well aware that it was mostly just bread and circuses anyway. Really, the popular vote for POTUS was mostly about putting the appropriate interim face on the enduring facade of Authority, nothing more. And the majority had elected to put the orange-haired buffoon forward as the newest face of Authority. Dean couldn’t imagine how that could possibly end well. (But then, Dean couldn’t really imagine much at all.)
The thread from which the wet blanket of american democracy was sewn was assuredly Authority. Dean had been enthusiastically licking at the asshole of Authority all his life… and he was a downright success! He had taught his children at a very young age to also lick the asshole of Authority at every opportunity. It’s how you got ahead… or how you gave head… or, er, something like that. Anyway, Authority was important, most important, to a man like Dean… and his unfortunate offspring… not to mention his hapless students.
Authority, yes… it couldn’t be freedom– no, certainly not. Dean had been so glad– in a secret, shh-don’t-tell-anyone kinda way– that day, early in the new millennium, when the towers had come down, and with them, the last of freedom’s dogged credibility. Freedom was hardly a thing to base a society around… a civilization, for gosh-sakes!
How much freedom did people really think they needed anyway? Dean could go, right now, to any one of three different Walmarts within driving distance, and choose from among literally thousands, maybe even millions, of cheap non-essential products– the very best that chinese labour could assemble. And then after shopping, he could have a Big Mac or a Whopper, or heck, maybe even a pizza. Choices man… that’s freedom. What more could a rational person want? No, any kinda freedom beyond that just wasn’t fair. What about the poor dullards? The ones without originality, with no imagination? No, any broader concept of freedom than that would be an affront to their self-esteem. Freedom was a thing of the past; it belonged to the gruff old cowboys of the wild west… and America had SO grown beyond that!
And now they’d voted for the crazy maverick. Dean figured that Trump hadn’t licked a single heartfelt lap at the true asshole of Authority in his life. Hillary, he was sure, had licked plenty of asshole in her day– granting her the proper perspective. But how in the heck was prudish Trump now suddenly supposed to pull off being president? How could he be expected to have a reasonable grasp of Authority at all? He was the asshole, and as far as that dimwit Trump knew, assholes were for just spewing shit. How could this be?
It was beginning to dawn on Dean that his fellow americans were perhaps something different from what he’d always imagined them to be. If they could vote for Trump– overwhelmingly– then Dean didn’t understand the first thing about all these people he’d never dare speak to– you know, the nut-jobs. Who knew there could be so many of them… still?
This might be a good place to expound on one of those many things Dean could never understand: in particular, the fuck-you vote, the middle-finger ballot. Only rebels and losers, people without proper haircuts, could ever give the finger to the status quo in Dean’s professional estimation. Sane and rational persons accepted the establishment, embracing its ample teat of opportunity. Indeed, the State was a thing to suckle on, to take comfort in. And the casting of a fuck-you vote was like talking back to your valium-sedated mother who was doing her darned best to just cope with the unending challenges of modern life. That just wasn’t very nice, was it?
Hillary was a symbol… or more accurately, now, she had been a symbol. Dean would have to admit that it was over for Hillary. And though he wouldn’t be the one to stick the proverbial fork up her ass, turn her over… cuz she’s done, somebody would nevertheless have to do it. Maybe Bill, but he was more than likely already busy poking someone else’s ass with his ex-presidential prick. So, anyway, Hillary had been a symbol for the american people. For some, like Dean, she represented the plasticine face of respectable self-sacrificing public service, a real champion of the people, albeit one without any significant accomplishments, unless destroying countries and raping their leaders with a bayonet counts… or maybe just laughing about it on national television could be considered a worthy shit-covered feather in her cap– and that took real balls, and Hillary didn’t mind one bit hanging hers out for all to see. And then to others, those whose sentiments might align more with those of the irascible narrator of this tale, think of Hitlery more as the embodied representation of endless steaming piles of corruption in the politicking whorehouse that is Washington’s vile business on the one day that the sewers completely backed up. (And I’m trying to be nice!)
Dean could never see it that way. Strangely, Dean– the academician– had never learned that in order to actually see, one had to actually look. Go figure.
How could the media have possibly gotten it so wrong? How could the polls be so misaligned with reality? Those primped and coiffed and teleprompted celebrity bobble-heads knew darned near everything! Heck, they presumably even knew why the Kardashians were so consistently popular. Clearly, their databanks were full… so why didn’t they see this coming? It was their constitutional duty to inform righteous folk like Dean of just such impending unpleasantries… before they came to pass. No, this wasn’t right; these election results were uncomfortable; they pressed at the temples of reality’s sudden migraine… and Dean had little sympathy or tolerance when he was forced outside of his comfort zone like this.
It had been ubiquitous, across the entire spectrum of popular media, Hillary’s impending victory. All of the many thousands of independent outlets of news media had agreed– as though with a singular voice, like they all knew the same special secret or something– that the presidency would be hers. And now they were all wrong. Impossible! Something smelled rotten here, but Dean had the discernment skills of a broke one-eyed drunk looking for more liquor. His investigative skills had been squeezed out of him like over-fluoridated toothpaste way back in elementary school, when he mostly only had baby teeth and an unnatural desire to always bite his tongue. Dean absolutely needed the media to tell him what was what… and exactly what he should think about it all. They had failed him… and now he literally didn’t know what to think.
What would his students think? What would they think of him? They positively knew that professor Dean was tongued into the Authority train… and now the kneeling train had gone completely off its rails! Oh, it might be like that day, that day when the impudent boy, that self-proclaimed critical thinker, had marched right into the lecture hall wearing that loathsome ball cap. ‘Trump: Make America great again’ is what it said in all its hateful glory. What could be more vile and pernicious than hate-speech of such an obvious and unmitigated variety? He had asked the boy– politely– to remove the hat and put it away. He had refused, claiming– quite absurdly– that free speech was somehow more important than the possibility of hurting someone’s feelings. And then he started going off about the basic requirements for democracy, and all that… to the dean of the Poli-Sci department, no less! Dean had interrupted him– a little less politely this time, but not much– to ask the boy if he actually intended to vote for the braying orange trumpet. He’d answered no… but not for the reason anyone might possibly ever think. He’d said “No, I don’t vote, lest such reckless behaviour be construed as consent for, or in any way legitimizes, the whole stupid farce of our sham democracy. I won’t be a party to it, nor will I merely pretend to complain about its woeful inadequacies; rather, I’ll fight it to the death!”
Dean hadn’t known what to say to that. How does one prepare for something like that? And now, it might happen again. Surely some, perhaps many, of his students had actually voted for Trump… in clear defiance of professor Dean’s intellectual snobbery. Somewhere the logic of it all had broken down, and now they were all lost together in the land of unforeseeable consequences. America was now officially off-script.
The pundits were calling the election results a wake-up call. But what might a guy like Dean actually wake up to? Was he really expected now to trade a lifetime of happy delusion for a bucket of cold reality and the promise of never sleeping soundly again? People like Dean, folks who are perfectly rational yet utterly impervious to reason, made up perhaps 40% of the country’s population. Judging from the election results, only about half of them had managed to get out and vote. Dean, and all the cardboard cutouts just like him, were now facing an acute crisis, an existential one.
Fortunately, the crisis– that particular one, unique to Dean and his commiserating conformist ilk– didn’t last long though. Right on that very morning that Dean was desperately trying to make sense of those inconceivable election results, there suddenly popped up, on every news site in the free (extorted/exploited) world, some very important breaking news: President-Elect Trump had just been assassinated! This too was rather perplexing for Dean… for it meant that one of his fellow ass-lickers actually owned a gun… and knew how to use it.
How wonderful! Thank God! (Don’t worry; Dean would never ever say the G-word out loud.) And just like that it was pretty much over just as soon as it had begun. Dean imagined that the insipid ‘equilibrium’ of routine american life would assuredly be restored.
Remember, I told you that Dean’s imagination was somewhat lacking in colour, texture and anything resembling accuracy. Immediately after Trump’s assassination, it seemed, all the people who had voted for him– the vast majority of which owned guns, lots and lots of guns– kicked off the American Civil War 2.0. The first thing they did was to go after the magic negro in the White House.
Dean, the magic negro, all of Dean’s children, and nearly all of Dean’s favourite students were dead before the end of the week.
Was America great again? No, not really… but now it had a fighting chance.
by nielskunze on September 17, 2016
(Wonderous Stories by Jon Anderson and Jean-Luc Ponty)
Sirclik had known of Dragons, from folktales and ancient myth. Though he had doubted the veracity of such claims, or alternatively, had thought that they belonged solely to an ancient bygone era, a part of him had always wished them to be true. But even so, he had never held any reasonable expectation of ever meeting one. Yet, here was one of the giants descending upon him, encircling and redirecting an ignominious destiny… for Sirclik, for Dragons, for all the Worlds.
Dragons are matriarchal. It is the female of the race who is the larger, the stronger, the fiercer, and the wiser. The female Dragon has such far distant sight into matters, strategies and fates that she stands unchallenged as the Guardian of Worlds. None would ever think to second-guess her. As she rode the spiral arc of descent to the tiny landing strip where Sirclik lay, he could not help but wonder nevertheless that perhaps she was mistaken, mistaken to ever bother with these dregs of his own draining mortality. What could such a fine majestic beast such as this deem of import with him?
Her dark wings stretched like a canopy over the sea on either side of the land-spit, dampening down the spray and the wind, as she leaned back the full bulk of her mass, coming in to land at Sirclik’s feet. She dragged the salted air with her in a final beat of those wings, sending gusts and rains into his face. It couldn’t be helped, and Sirclik found no insult in the maneuver. Finally, she folded and tucked her wings as best she could at her sides and stood towering over the shivering man half buried in the sand among boulders and the deep black ocean.
Sirclik knew little of protocol. He recalled that only folly chose to look a Dragon directly in the eye. They were glamorous charmers, schooled in hypnotic magicks. A Dragon’s will was said to be second to only the will of the gods. But what was he to do? He had already accepted death once, and that gave him a reckless courage now in this reprieve, as he met the gaze of his new… companion…? tormentor…? master…? guide…? He was determined to find out which.
She seemed to accept his stare as a queen might accept a bow from one of her subjects. In her stare, there was no obvious rebuke, nor was there anything resembling tenderness either. It was an acknowledgement, a greeting; and that in itself seemed to breathe a measure of life back into Sirclik’s being. He would not be made a snack, not on this day at least.
The immediate challenge before them both was now one of language. Sirclik was reasonably familiar with the use of vocalizations, although among the People themselves they were seldom used. Their typical rapport was more in line with telepathy, though not based in words. Theirs was a tight communion, one of knowing the other’s mind… through the shared heart of the tribe. The giant Dragon towering above him however was such a foreign entity that such communion was simply not possible, at least within no reasonable degree of immediacy. Furthermore, Sirclik deduced that a Dragon’s voice was not particularly suited to the articulation of spoken words; it just seemed too farfetched to hope for.
“Greetings,” he said aloud to the world, to the sea, to the Master before him. His voice was soft, broken and unpracticed, but his entreaty reached her ears nevertheless, evidenced by the slight tilt of her head in immediate response.
Her proper reply came as words, telepathically, fired into his brain like arrows or bullets, beyond any recourse to choice. “Forgive the intrusion,” she began, and Sirclik was awed that her discourse should begin with an apology. “Our languaging may pose some difficulties, as we are wholly unknown to each other, and so shall it largely remain. We are neither friend nor foe to the other, but we share a common purpose.” Before the question could even properly arise in his mind, Sirclik felt the indication internally, directed from her, pointing to the egg of strange compulsion within him as the source of this momentary kinship. “I see that I know more of your purpose than even you or your tribe,” she continued. “I shall assist to enlighten and invigorate you to the very limits of your apparent frailty. It is my hope that you are more robust of character than your obvious deficiencies suggest.”
Sirclik truly perceived no insult. The sheer absurdity of the situation precluded any such egotism. His heart swelled with gratitude for the mere hint for assistance. He began assembling appropriate words in his mind for a diplomatic response, but the Dragon commanded that he speak aloud. “It would not be wise,” she explained, “to allow one such as myself full entry into your mind. I will not seek your responses there. You would be irreparably harmed in such a mergence of our cognitive disparity. Speak aloud, into the consensus we share, this place between worlds; my ears are keen. And I, in turn, will continue to place only words within your mental grasp, the gentlest projections I can muster… for you are correct to assume that my vocalizations are not suited to the human tongue.”
It was not lost on Sirclik that she had easily read his thoughts in determining that a Dragon could not physically speak aloud. And now he took comfort in her tacit promise to respect the sovereignty and the frailty of his mind. It seemed that she could easily pick up any outward-directed thought, but respectfully declined from possessing the entirety of his cognitive domain. The insistence that he speak aloud was a clear demarkation of her respectful regard… and that she harbored no desire to destroy him.
“Will you survive the next hundred heartbeats?” she asked, peering down upon the shivering and frail stick-man.
Sirclik nodded and affirmed aloud “Yes,” though his certainty was based more in hope than physical reality.
Without the slightest hesitation, she was airborne again with a practiced leap and the beat of her powerful wings. She disappeared quickly from Sirclik’s sight toward the landmass from whence he had just come.
Sirclik closed his eyes and conserved the very last of his strength, hugging his own remaining body heat in a tight ball with knees drawn up and head buried in forearms and elbows. His quaking breath spilled into his lap in broken gasps resembling sobs, but he could still feel the minuscule heat of a life not quite extinguished. How long he remained thus was impossible to measure; Death was a poor timekeeper. His determination to draw just one more breath rewarded him time and again… until finally the Dragon returned.
Even before landing, she dropped a parcel of deadwood from her huge talons in close proximity to where the frail human still breathed. She circled once more and came in to land, being careful not to churn up too much sea spray that might douse the wood, not to mention the man. She easily arranged the wood into a neat pile and immediately ignited it with her legendary breath.
With the crackle of burning wood, the smell of smoke and the promise of light and heat, Sirclik raised his face to the bonfire, and then crawled within the providence of its warm embrace. He shivered in the dancing light, reaching out his limbs one-by-one to capture the intense heat in all the places it was needed most.
Without a word, the Dragon leapt into the sky again, retracing her flightpath once more. Sirclik was left alone with the soothing fire.
When next she returned, this time she dropped the carcass of an unknown beast on the side of the bonfire across from Sirclik. He gazed upon the dead thing horrified. It was mangled and bloody from the rapacious dexterity of her claws. Then she proceeded to land again just beyond the place where the carcass lay.
“You will eat,” she instructed Sirclik matter-of-factly. In the present context, those three words made no sense to Sirclik. Surely, this could not be considered food. His objections were clear and palpable, hanging in the air unvoiced. The Dragon continued nonplussed. “For the place where you are going,” she inserted into his mind, “this is most appropriate food.” She then proceeded to draw a long talon down the midline of the carcass, eviscerating the beast, spilling its guts in the sand. She scooped those up deftly with her mouth to gulp them down, and then she tore the remainder of muscle meat into manageable chunks for Sirclik, first removing the hide with little effort. “If you roast it in the fire you may find it to be somewhat more palatable. If you can stomach it raw, it will better nourish you and your quest.”
The hunger was insistent. There was little Sirclik could do to fight it other than to heed the dragonly advice already given. He arranged a few parcels of meat around the raging bonfire, allowing them to char and sizzle. The smell, he noticed, wasn’t completely unpleasant. After a time, with the Dragon’s keen insistence, he began to tear the cooked muscle from the bones with his hands and teeth. It was tough and required a great deal of chewing before it could be safely swallowed. It fell heavily into his stomach, squashing the siege of hunger as it had so mercilessly gripped him. In the process, the only life Sirclik had ever known truly and utterly vanished, and now was replaced by the life of this beast violently stolen… and shared with his unlikely companion.
Once the she-Dragon was content that Sirclik was reinvigorated and beyond Death’s immediate grasp, she began to instruct him on the mysteries he still faced. He huddled close to the ample embers of the fire, stealing heat still as the flames and their light diminished.
“Much of my instruction,” she began, “will seem incomprehensible, yet it will be available to you in the future flowering of comprehension.”
There was something about this hollowing-out process that had left Sirclik empty and unknown to himself that now allowed the Dragon’s guidance to fill him up beyond the usual personal identity among the circle of his ancestors. The words, though alien and impenetrable, found space in Sirclik’s psyche like a subtle magick spell. He had given up everything familiar about himself in the pursuit of this quest so that a different kind of hero might arise in place of the mundane. And Sirclik knew none of this; he had no basis to relate to any of it. Just the strange egg buried within him jostled and vibed to the burgeoning song of new adventure.
He settled deeply into a listening posture, preparing for the noxious dialogue that was about to infect his entire being, making room for the disease, welcoming the madness already embraced. He drained the last dregs of liquid from his water-skin to dilute the reality of the digesting beast in his belly. And before she began her crafted oratory, Sirclik had one question to ask of his unlikely benefactor.
“What do I call you?” he asked innocently enough. “What is your name?”
“There is power in names, and destiny intermingles with identity,” she answered curtly. “You will refer to me simply as Dragon. I do not disclose my personal fate to mortals.” It was not a rebuke, rather just a clear line of demarkation, or perhaps a safety valve; what was to follow would flow in only one direction. This was no friendly exchange; this was the battle-plan for worlds in collision… and Sirclik was being briefed for a mission he lacked the tools to even understand.
“There are worlds within worlds within worlds…”
The Dragon’s tutelage lasted for what might be regarded as days in this twilight realm between the proper worlds of creation. She filled him up with the oratory of an incomprehensible lore, citing dire destinies and uncommon need. She further assured him that his future experience would provide the context for eventual understanding of all that which was well beyond him now. Sirclik could only listen and absorb the strange words and concepts as they replaced and overwrote the last echoes of his former identity.
And while he came to embody the Dragon’s gift, he continued to feast upon the flesh of the beast she had provided, regaining his strength, conditioning his resolve. From the hide of the creature, he fashioned himself a cloak and rudimentary footwear according to her instruction. The next leg of the journey would prove to be a challenge to them both, and preparation was essential.
“I will take you to where the ice-shelf begins. Further I dare not venture, for the cold would still my blood despite the fire in my breath. A dragon cannot fare long in winter; perhaps you can.”
Winter was just another concept unfamiliar to Sirclik. He had never experienced such a condition, but the Dragon promised that soon he would understand, as learning would click into context of the journey moving forward. She had filled him with so many odd notions like… like the world of his fated destination being in quarantine… and that it had been seeded by gods and creatures, creators and spies… that it was a time-capsule, like an egg preparing to hatch into a brave new cosmos… that it was a place of intense beauty and jealous cruelty… that her own progeny gestated in the moon… and so on. Sirclik didn’t even have the faintest notion of what a moon might be, but he was nevertheless excited to find out.
And then it was time for their departure. Bundled tightly in animal skins, Sirclik was invited to climb upon the Dragon’s back, and to make camp in the level spot between her shoulder blades. Her scales were just loose enough to allow Sirclik a chance at grasping and holding on, and they were not quite so sharp at their edges to threaten to cut him to pieces. Nevertheless, this next leg of the journey would prove to be somewhat other than comfortable, and definitely precarious, even frightening.
He lay flat on his belly at first, encircling her neck with his arms as best he could. She was much too big for him to clasp his hands at her throat, but he felt reasonably secure when the moment came for the pair to become airborne.
She leapt mightily into the air, unfurling and beating her wings simultaneously. The muscles of her flesh rippled beneath the armor of scales under his belly. He was tossed and jostled by the mere mechanics of the dragon’s flight, but managed to maintain a lifesaving grip as he quickly got used to the constant motion and the constant threat of falling. His face bounced against the unyielding rigidity of her scales; he noticed the typical fetid smell of dragons…
This was an experience! Unimaginable.
Very quickly, any sign of land vanished from sight below them. Now there was only the deep black unending sea… as far as he could see in any direction, roiling and churning in this twilight place. Time was still… rather meaningless, being the measure of change. There was a humbleness, almost an insignificance which blanketed Sirclik’s psyche. He was a mere mote of dust upon the wind… one with a powerful ally and protector. She gently reminded him that he would stand in the remainder of this lifetime upon the fence between humble insignificance and sacred duty. Both sides of the fence would squeeze a new personality from between their vast insistence and constancy.
Finally, there appeared a white streak across the horizon ahead, and beyond it a new source of light. The air had grown markedly chilled and unwelcoming. The Dragon prepared to land by gliding downward at a furious rate of descent. Her body was as cold as a rock beneath him, despite the workings of her muscles, the stoking of her breath. Sirclik clung to her like a doomed sailor to the tip of an iceberg set adrift– though he had no basis for understanding the metaphor… yet.
She skidded unsteadily upon ice and snow, coming in to land. When she came to an abrupt stop in the bank of snow that had gathered around and swallowed her feet, Sirclik was flung suddenly from her back to land in a forward drift. Snow was unknown to him; even ice on such a scale as this was beyond his ability to imagine. In the shock of the cold, he brushed himself off, coming to his feet in a wobbly stance. His muscles were cramped and sluggish beneath the protection of animal skin wrapped around his soul.
He was again filled with questions but couldn’t settle on a single one. The Dragon answered him all the same, reminding him that she had already given him what she could. It was obvious to Sirclik that the environment was extremely hostile to his benefactor… and friend, and she was eager to get away to safety.
“You are three days away from the barrier,” she told him. “Once you cross it– and I have no idea what that might be like or even if it may be accomplished– you will belong to the World called Earth. Remember, it is an anagram for heart… encircled in ice. Follow the yellow light ahead, during the day; rest at night. The stars in the sky are the creator gods looking on, influencing in subtle delight. The Sun is the son of the Infinite Designer of the space for all the Worlds. His Life is given to all whom venture here. He is invested in you– and all you meet– completely. When the Life of the son is dimmed, the moon shall hatch, and all the world of Earth will likewise hatch as One… to herald the new beginning of cosmic communion. Fare thee well.”
Mostly it was more gibberish to Sirclik, yet her final speech rang with an undeniable nobility inside him. He stood before her, still awed and silent. Tears representing unknown, complex emotions rolled down his cheeks… as she was the witness to his resolve. Barely above the level of a whisper he managed to say “Thank you.”
She bowed her head to him– a most unlikely gesture– and then imparted one last tidbit before again taking to the air, headed for warmer climes. She said “I am Lizabeth.”
And then she was gone.
(The Prophet by Yes from their 1970 album Time and a Word)
to be continued soon…
by nielskunze on September 3, 2016
1. The Outskirts
The arms of the People wrapped around Sirclik; they reached through him. They touched him deeply, just as they always had, coddling and comforting him. Sirclik felt the whole love of the People as the main part of himself. But there was a place, yes, a place, deep inside that was like an egg, small with a life of its own, protected by a hard shell, defending an integrity that Sirclik himself did not understand. And the People did not understand… this place inside their brother that they could not touch.
Sirclik stood alone, more alone than he had ever been in his life, in the great shadow of the One Tree. He had never ventured out of sight of the One Tree; no one had, at least not in the recent memory of the People. The Tree, which cradled the life of all the known worlds, towered impossibly above the Land, reaching to the very heavens. That life could even exist outside of its shadow, beyond its infinite care, seemed dubious to Sirclik, but the strange ‘egg’ nested inside him urged him to contemplate the impossible, to seek it out with all the fervor of his life.
The People didn’t understand, but they were with him, at least for now, as he stood at the known edge of Reality. They weren’t here physically, just in spirit, as the better part of Sirclik’s heart. They would support him as best they could on this strange and compelling journey into the unknown…
This was the Outskirts, the untamed and largely uncharted periphery of the only home Sirclik had ever known. Already he was beyond any previous wanderings his restless life had prompted. None of the People had been to these places, or especially beyond, for many many generations. But the strange ‘egg’ inside Sirclik’s fiery constitution bristled and threatened with the prospect of hatching and beginning a life of its own, and this unprecedented journey was an attempt to pre-empt such a possibility. He was answering a call from within… one that did not originate in his own familiar being though, nor was it sourced in the collective of his tribe. It was a calling from an alien world, one that had been secretly seeded within him… and there appeared to be no choice but to answer the call.
The sun that circled around the uppermost branches of the One Tree ducked in and out of view, casting long shadows to the very Outskirts, alternating with the dimming twilight brought about by atmosphere and distance. Regal and majestic forests gave way to grasslands and scrub as the far distant light defined its own life-giving limits. Sirclik journeyed in the half-light of an ambiguous topography, this transitional place between everything that was safe, secure and reliably known… and all that was unconsidered, uncharted and strangely provocative.
With every step of uncountable miles, he felt ever more the stranger to himself. As the Land presented itself in unfamiliar guises, as lifeforms uncatalogued and alien, Sirclik felt diluted or emptied, as though every memory he had cherished for a lifetime was being plucked from him with each adventurous step. He was being hollowed out by this renegade choice to meet an unknown fate head-on.
The ever-present comfort of the People, their unshakable presence in his heart, felt now like a distant whisper carried upon indifferent winds. It was as though his inner reality was being stretched and thinned, faded to near nothingness. He understood now why such journeys as these were so seldom undertaken; the price was his very humanity. How would he endure this hollowing out? What would he truly be once empty and unknown even to himself?
The inner accompanying gaze of his People was finally like a slit of eyes in a far-off thicket, squinting and bobbing to maintain a clear line of sight to his distant heart. Sirclik felt for the first time that the communal eye of the People might finally close at any moment, and that he would be utterly, devastatingly alone. And in that frightening thought, he felt something new, something that had only been spoken of in whispers, quite infrequently, and as though it might not even be true. He felt the physical sensation of this emptiness, this isolation; he felt it as hunger.
The People seldom ate. With their hearts so filled with each other in peaceful communion, they knew no lack. They were sated with everything they needed to fully experience their tribe and their place within it. The only reason they ever had to eat was for novelty and pleasure and to share experience with the lifeforms they ingested, all by invitation and mutual agreement, of course. No one had ever truly known hunger as anything more than a mild curiosity… for a novel experience.
But now Sirclik felt a hunger that was more akin to pain. The Elders had warned him that such would be the case. It had been beyond his ability to imagine, and now it suddenly consumed nearly his whole attention. The hunger seemed to belong to the tiny ‘egg’ within him; it was not his own. Like the egg itself, this hunger was not an integrated part of him. It was something foisted upon him, something foreign, like a ceremonial costume of a far distant tribe, donned in deference and polity. But it could not be cast off or ignored. It throttled his mind with such strange insistence.
Sirclik knelt in the sparse grass. He stooped to smell the life within the meagre blades. Finally, he succumbed to the need to eat and began grabbing handfuls, asking permission of course, but scarcely able to hear such acquiescence given, given as it was.
The grasses of the outlying lands were tough, rugged and sweet. And they were eager to share of Sirclik’s esoteric quest, giving themselves unto it. He chewed the juices from them, relying on some ancient instinct, and then spat greenish fibrous wads, spent and empty, into the dirt as mulch. The juices were good, and seemed to quell the rumbles in his tummy, like water on a fire. After a dozen handfuls or more, the hunger had finally been quieted.
He thanked the Land for its timely assistance, gaining his feet again, and resumed the journey to nowhere.
How long Sirclik journeyed was difficult to measure. In the Land of his People, day had never known the absoluteness of night. As the sun circled the One Tree at its uppermost reaches, there were just the instances of shadow and twilight, but nothing ever resembling true darkness. The sun was far or near, but never absent. But here, now, in the badlands of the Outskirts, the sun was just a smudge of light in the sky, far away and fading fast.
Ahead lay lands seemingly made from dark shadows. Even the horizon behind him was a dirty yellow ribbon stretched across a grey expanse. Turning forward again, Sirclik noticed that the air had a briny smell, and that perhaps there was water lying ahead, dark and foreboding in the half-light. The Elders had told him of the sea, a place where the waters filled one’s entire view. It was salty and mysterious… straight ahead.
He had never been to the shoreline, not like this. It had only ever been a fairytale meant to baffle and confuse. Indeed, he had known of lakes and ponds, but always had there lain more land beyond their distant shores, in sight, in certitude. But now, as far as he could see, there were waves piled upon waves, stretching to a black infinity.
This presented Sirclik with a problem. He couldn’t very well dive in and begin swimming without a clear destination in sight. Such folly would be his death for sure. But the impish little egg inside him still urged him on. Somewhere beyond the impossible sea lay his unreasonable goal, he was sure. But how to get there, he hadn’t a clue.
At the water’s edge he stopped a moment to feel inside for the guidance of the People, for the wisdom of the Elders, but that once-sure connection was nearly imperceptible now. He felt them more as only a memory and not the familiar companionship that he and all his kin had ever taken for granted in these lifetimes… woven together in unbroken community.
No clear inner guidance was forthcoming. He squinted through the dimness and the humidity and thought that perhaps he saw a spit of land off to his left jutting out into the sea. It was a ways off, but provided the only reasonable destination in the current circumstances, if indeed he was seeing true. Perhaps there was a land bridge bisecting the waters, able to take him to the very ends of his courage and wit.
A time later he stood at the mouth of the spit, a narrow strip of land leading out into the dark waters of a chilling destiny. He could not see clearly ahead to where the land might end, or even that it did. It all came to a point where the blackish waters of the sea merged with the very same blackness of the land dimming from sight. Sirclik’s perspective could not discern the way ahead, and yet there was no other reasonable direction to go. He marched onward upon a rocky sliver of hope, this meagre arrow of sparse grassland, finally giving way to only rock and more rock… narrow and bleak.
He was hungry again. He had completely forgotten about it until the very moment it arrived. And then the hunger, its need, seemed to make him suddenly weak. He would not go back. Sirclik stumbled over and around wet boulders, growing cold, as the sea raged on either side of his treacherous path. He could not allow himself to wonder what he might’ve gotten himself into. It was his only goal to continue to the limits of his strength and will. Besides, there was naught else to realistically do.
Eventually, propped between two boulders, panting and reclining, Sirclik found the end of his strength. He was just another shadow now, hollowed out from all that had once filled him, contented him, a featureless shell of a man, empty, except for the egg. He was useless now as its champion, its guardian, its caretaker. Sirclik wondered what it might be like to die alone, isolated from the People, severed from their living community.
Was this foolishness all his own? Or was the egg the very seed of foolishness surreptitiously sown, or laid within him for no true purpose? It seemed so wrong to Sirclik that all should come to naught like this… at the end of his strength, and the purpose still unknown.
He shivered and shook. His teeth chattered. He wriggled down deeper into the wet sand between the rocks, digging himself into what land there was. If he was going to die, at least he would connect himself to the Land, however it presented itself. The ground was always connected to the entirety of the Land, the ground in which the One Tree was rooted, and through its Life, connected all the Worlds. He grabbed handfuls of sand and tipped his head back to look at the charcoal sky, to see if he could still distinguish the uppermost branches of the giant One Tree in the distance… But no, it had probably fallen from view long ago. He saw nothing now but grey and shadow, smudged in deathly tones of a life rubbed out. He was as cold as the sea… as still as a rock… his last breath escaping as a gentle mist…
And the last glimmer of life in his eye fixed suddenly upon a silhouette in the sky, an impossible silhouette! He drew another breath… and another. There was nothing left inside him to think on this… for what might Sirclik think anyway? There simply was no context for comprehending such a sight. What could it mean? What ever could it possibly mean that a mighty Dragon circled toward him?
Sirclik was suddenly determined to live as long as it might take to find out.
(Ludvig & Sverker piano version by Beardfish)
…to be continued soon…