Well this has been
hanging on me for the thick end of a year now, 2 in fact, and I still cannot
bring it into focus, whatever it is. So take it and take from it what you will,
this fractured thought, imperfect, flawed and yet somehow?; there is a kernel
within, that will make sense, I hope. Someday.
Thanks to
Akira for the unintended nudge to the lazy, a while
back before his main site got torped again. Though by now you should know that
your correspondent feels that the 100
th monkey syndrome is alive and
well. I’ve dropped some heavy hints about what we will delve into once this lot
is out of the way.
Ugliness is genetic.
If you have not
guessed it yet the concept of beauty entrances my being. A full spectrum
weapons grade gliding through the thorough long grass in the companionship of a
lethal woman; enjoining the combat.
This is not a ghost
hunt, so don’t be getting all confused now as the white lady wanders through
the darkened stormy garden and you, all snug in the ruined building, looking
out and down at her. Casting your eyes.
No, no,
no; this is a little wander through something
I’ve touched on before and which I’d like to have placed in the
context of what is to follow when I continue the 2iC, (there’s a time stamp indicating
the snail like pixel hitting on this numpty’s qwertyboard), conversation with
you. I had thought it would be the other way round, however I now think not.
The usual caveats
apply.
If you got the musings
on Heim space then I’m sure that, even though Heim’s work is an engineered
construct to hopefully facilitate human intervention in the stars, you must
have asked yourself,
Not amongst the stars,
on off worlds like aliens. No. Just what could out/in habit those extra 1,5 or
7 dimensions? Not though, in this
Alice in Wonderland sense. The British love fiction, writing fiction,
reading fiction, creating fiction. The djinn at play.
A little recap on
whatI’ve trundled over and
through before. Do you remember I recounted that the
old patriarchs of the Syrian church would remark on their contact with
something humane yet not human? So what are these topics of this outing?
which the
usual afflicted bitchboy
decided to turd all over in the usual ever soclever worldy wordy way. Let me simplify, unRISC and decypher what the clown
was trying to hide in his in your face kind of way. The usual pretend civilised
discussion until NOAHide feels it can off us unnoticed like. All full of rhetoric,
loopy logic and reasoned debate about how to restore or amend for injustice,
perceived or actual, until there is nothing standing between them and the
murder of all who would point at them a laugh at their muppetry and assumption
of rightful wrongeddoing.
The reason I highlight
this guy’s overexposed approach to this thorney little item is that he clearly
demonstrated the typical afflicted response to selffacedselfishbelief of RISC self.
“It wasn’t me. Big
boys made me do it and then they ran away!”
Or
Finding yourself
surounded by dead people visited upon by the LPP and a smoking gun in your hand,
feign mental illness and hire the best QC that money can buy. Hire a rent a
shrink and invent a new syndrome, double barrelled of course, to give cover for
those who can use the pretext in centuries to come to hide their sociopathy and
psychopathy coveted in obsequious group thought through vomit inducing
syndicated sycophancy.
Or
If, when at last, you
have been hunted down and the body count for the camps you enforced has been
deliberatley underestimated, blame it all on a system that you had no control
over. The system that gave you a great big hardon everytime you pulled the
trigger.
Or
Having removed every
witness to your crimes such that only rumors and legends remain. Die peacefully
in your comfy bed knowing full well that it was the fault of your victims that
you visited death upon them. Nothing to do with you. You are not culpable in
the sight of your djinn.
This is the
prototypical self fulfilling delusion of the afflicted who wander their
murderous way through our lives killing anyone and everyone with all the temporal
instruments they can lay their hands on. These instruments can be financial,
cultural, moral, epidemiological, martial, psychological, any art or artifice; anything
just as long as there are victims piled up dead everywhere these infested
clowns settle.
The geneticmemetic can
be summed up in the one word, me. “It wasn’t me”.
Me,me,me,me,me,me,me,me,me….ad nauseam.
“All the dead people,
nothing to do with me!”. Though I slept and dined in luxury the starving rent
payers, tax herds, out with my door were nothing to do with me. They brought it
upon themselves, they gave me what is rightfully mine and then died. Nothing to
do with me, it was their choice.”
This the signature of
the destroyers of peace, infected by their own self reverential djinn.
Pax vobiscum