Hidden from sight. Secret in the open air.
As a rationalist by instinct and an empiricist by training I take my reality seriously. I always observe and seek to explain the beliefs and actions of others in that great spectrum from Baphomet to Real Estate.
However I will reserve the right to follow my Dumnonian chum into the Barrows.
Ever wondered what false memory syndrome really is? Ever wondered why that grouping of letters, utterances and phonemes should be arranged just so? Ever wondered if time exists? Ever wondered that time might just be a turn of the screw?
Ever wondered why there should be a series of gruntings for each and every age that is the Lingua Franca? Ever wondered why there should be a strange progression from plasma discharges to beautifully smoked cave art to nothing to stick on clay to pictograms to squigglings and then letterings and a beautiful, though ill-equipped, stylings trying and revealing the inner working of our essence. Then pictograms again. Texting and silence.
If there is one thing that strikes me as I observe the flowings and followings of the moment it is that there is no more measuring and precision. All is poetry. Bad poetry.
Not being a graduate of any Venetian academy I am blissfully free though somewhat bereft of the beauty that is Percy Bysshe Shelley.
I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
`My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
I always wondered why it should be that a poet would effortlessly encapsulate all that is the sweat of every art, craft and device. To describe what is the objective individually and by Smiths’s specialisation, science and industry.
Other than mathematics.
Are you an artist or a scientist?
If you are truly a great artist then you are a mathematician, an instinctive magician. Yet part of you is removed from the reality of others.
If you are a scientist then you are an instinctive theoretician, a priest. You miss the parts removed from your examination.
The problem is intelligence. Some are not picking up the signal though they are piercingly brilliant. They are isolated from the great flux of memory which surrounds all that live, have lived and ever will live.
Though the means of termination will soil the sweet waters of life’s babbling unbroken mitochondrial DNA mutation rate.
Thanks to Keiser via ZGR I caught up with this.
Yes that is false memory syndrome.
If you spend all day every day having your dead space blotted, blasted, filtered, assaulted and manured by filth you are not going to be healthy in mind, body or spirit. If you spend all day relating with others who cannot name a flower but know the exact transmission time of a favourite soap characters biggest scene then you are in a false reality. You do not exist. You have been removed from reality.
The reality that the smokers in the BIG ROOM are allowed to play with.
What happens if the reality is changing around us and rationalism and study is coming to an end as the great spiral arms twist and the universe pulses to a harmonic that we discerned in bits.
We are stilted, stalled and contused in more ways that one.
For those of us living in UK plc we are being assaulted continuously by a very dark effluence which seeks to deter enquiry, undermine veracity, conflate complicity, obscure culpability and escape reckoning.
The latest line in a long mine of child deaths by torture is supposed to stun us into compliance.
We are not to ask the following questions?
Who is allowing the children to be killed?
Since in UK plc you cannot park your car without being fined; how can you torture a child in camera?
What are you really looking at?
How much money do you get? How many dead children?
Is there an agency quota, to be incentivised of course, of sacrificial trash kennelled children delivered monthly?
To be lucky is to be impossibly jinxed.
To be correct is to be cursed.
PBS knew instinctively, I reckon he was connected, that we flow as the universe flows. Our thoughts never end and our imagination creates reality for those to come. Do not stop thinking. Combat thought killers and thought killers by your own double think. They hate us because we know their legs are so wood wormed they are old and rotten to the core.
We also know that no matter how much they protest and shamble those children were assigned to die through sweet charity’s long armed killing embrace...
We are slaked by killers in sheep’s clothing.
A war is being waged over times and spaces that only a deep and full stillness can defeat.