Monday 2 August 2010

Boring Part 4 of ?

Our 33rd Degree mason and all round good egg beater and pinney wearer who swanned around Roswell in the 1930s, GeheimeStatsPolizeiLand thereafter before getting into the Paperclip trail and Las Vegas Monte Carlo ruse to the end of his daze, had a problem with his rockets in the very early 1959/60s

They were encountering something weird. His rockets were fucking over Newtonian mechanics.

So our lad wandered over to Bonn’s faux État to speak to a guy who would give him a clue.

Then all of a sudden it went bang.


What field effects were they after once their Soviet mates gave them a cover story?

Why does Starfish Prime which blew the comms in Hawaii remind me of Berlin after Insel Rügen?

Just what was Heim into?

Why should we care?

We need to distinguish the mode, model and meme.

Who realises you through nothing?

How far do you squeeze the fields of your ken?

What warps you until you exist from the lone lucked fuck none?

What are you? Are ouy, you?

How much is our ken Kan you know your ken?

In the out who are you?

My soon to meet mate Bill the Dumnonian along a long, long while ago just this moment told me that there were seven levels of ken in the Mebyon Kernow Ken.

Long before or alter I stood.


It was intensely cold bitter by the glassy pumped flow of evanescence. All was stilled and dead, alive and stilled no gyre.

30 degrees below ice forming. ISO.

The infinite two moon, three sun sky was Scottish blue black.

The Sodium glow of Glasgow was over the law.

The Clyde was Scottish midnight quick silver. Beauty stunning my eyes as it flowed out past Arran and Paddy’s Mile Stone.

The potcheen stills stilled.

In the blazing moon cast I could count each individual field down, leap each field boundary, edge hedge to the coast at Ardeer and into the stilled blackwaters.

All was beautiful in the gleaming frostfire. All was perfectly frozen, petrified.

Hot in cold. Motion in still. Free in unending eddying and reediting spinspununeaseuncease.

The grass had shattered beneath my coming footfall like cryogenic sprouts as I hadded strodenode over the vastending and infinteempty moornothing into the future.

Counting the nostars, the nonstellations, the pastcoming and last presented.

I beheld the Heavens and stared upward in wonder, out through my rasping fogging breath. Out through my rising tiny grasping reach.

If I plucked out my eyes would the stars still twinkle? Would the winkling out of my sight make me blinded? Would the winking of my ken be at an end?

Seeking out past forever. Seeing is believing.


Our temporal reality will need to accept the jinn.

We have the totality of all under and as above but not all.

Heim Space.

Not just space propulsion. In thence where is space here for our deeper realisations and realities?

My favourite uncle once told me of the time I ran and my aunt the slowing threw the table and I ran over slowing me down until she left the church and time slowed catching flee in harder I tried to escape I ran. Escaping from the haunted ground I never forget.

It sucked my will.

This is the kind of nonsense we will have to deal with as the new reality comes into our conscience. We’ve been asleep. The waking up will require some vary deep very realisation and a remarkable candour of who we are and are not.

In the great fields of our reality there is no truth to be handed to us on a green, red, white or multihued plate. There is only the crockery self made. There is only the desire to seek the unenlightened, unilluminted, dedarked, uncloaked, brightenedmysterium place where no entity is struggling to steal our young.

Do not worry? Through the deaths of millions and billions and the pyre of trillions and the squandering of quadrillions from the bogroll printers we will all see that the clowns who have been lead pilling through the patented right of the pharmacy license are marked.

Our problem is that we are seen as co-conspirators by the waves of desperate, egged on by the killing caked kiln bakers and assorted rollover dead baker’s dozens oven stalkers, already dead. Proselytised by the foundation globalist cabalist community organisers and organ grinders. Seeking to make loam of us for their rotten fruit trees.

The great Metushélach cuckoos of the secreted temple forgers have been killing us softly, one against the other like playground spastics, millennia after millennia as the blossoms blew, the rain fell, the snow tumbled and in the sun shone. As the trees defecated their leaves. Tumbling down and seeded the solar eddy’d killing fields. As all our bodies, slaughtered or lightly lifted from the death bed were returned to the earth shine sun shit from which it came.

But what of us? Our souls?

That one thing cannot be found.

But in Heim Space we may find our consciousness, our thinking and our social control. In there the unending battle. The never peace.

I know you do not believe me but we are under a Nam shub. All available evidence leads me in that direction.

And if you have been with me so far you will know that TPTB have been identified.

WE are TPTB.

Isn’t that a pisser.

Fucked witz.

Heads up.

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