(Always) Ten years left to save the planet

I found this video hilarious. Not that I be-LIE-ve Tony Heller, because on this matter, I have no idea what to believe. And I can’t imagine you do either. After all, is the map ever the territory?

The New York Times keeps thinking so. Here’s the latest, from two days ago:

Major Climate Report Describes a Strong Risk of Crisis as Early as 2040

(Oops! Not ten years this time, but twenty!)

Frankly, I relish Heller’s tongue-in-cheek delivery. And notice, as he points out, the source of the fluctuating predictions — for both global warming and global cooling — is usually(?) . . drum roll . . . the U.N.! (And Agenda 21. And Agenda 30).

Via sott.net.

 

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WOW! Back story of True Pundit

SWAT-clad FBI agents stormed into Mike “Thomas Paine” Moore’s home and terrorized his wife and young children at gunpoint after rousting them out of bed. Not once, but twice, pointing automatic weapons at the family. Historic, costly blunders for the FBI. 

In response Paine assembled his journalism crew of fomer feds, launched True Pundit and literally dismantled the FBI in less than two years with pens and laptops while working from home, often in pajamas.

While the mainstream media ignored a corrupt FBI & DOJ, Paine and cohorts hammered away and knocked the FBI off its trusted public mantle. Revered FBI leaders were fired. Others quit. FBI officials, targeted by True Pundit’s hard-hitting reporting, are now targets of numerous federal investigations. A fitting irony after the FBI — whom Paine worked for — came into his home with M4 rifles drawn on his young kids and wife. Twice. Then, the FBI went on a rampage to ruin his Fortune 100 career at Citi and even prevented him from attending his mother’s funeral.

What did Paine know that terrified the Deep State and prompted FBI agents to stoop so low as to literally terrorize an 8-year-old and 12-year-old? And Paine’s wife? Paine tells it all here — including revealing his True Identity as Award-winning newspaper reporter and Intel expert Mike Moore.

And his insider revelations are not pretty as they blow the roof off one of the most sinister, gut-wrenching scandals in U.S. history, involving Democrats and Republicans.

Implicated too here are U.S. Special Counsel Robert Mueller along with former CIA Director John Brennan, among many others. A Criminal conspiracy involving top players in the Deep State, entrenched in one of the greatest public betrayals imaginable.

They tried to silence Paine and ruin him to keep these alarming revelations secret but something went wrong. Paine rose from the ashes of his battered life and tattered financial career and then re-launched his award-winning journalism career. And this time — playing by his own rules — Paine blows the lid off of a massive cover up that implicates the same D.C. elite who tried to take him down.

Mike “Thomas Paine” Moore’s story is one of personal loss, struggle, payback and patriotism.

You may have heard the prophetic warning that “One Day You’re Going to Mess with the Wrong Guy.” 

In ‘How We Dismantled the FBI in Our Pajamas,’ Paine proves he is THAT guy. And the FBI — or what’s left of it now — surely regrets the days it threatened Paine’s wife and children at gunpoint, miscalculations that ultimately rocked its foundations unlike any FBI scandal in American history.

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WHAT’S REAL? IT DEPENDS. The differential between MSM “news” and Nature (including our nature).

Monarch butterfly graces the main Green Acres Village Garden, photo by podmate Solan, sent today. Thanks!

 

 

Oh yeah, and while “Monarch” is also the name of a MK Ultra mind control program, we are talking about the real butterfly here, okay? The one that lives on underneath human linguistic, political, cultural, theological SPIN on what Nature is really doing. Yes, below all the material, monetary, linguistic, political, cultural and theological garbage we throw at her, Nature continues to support us all, selflessly, flawlessly, and with exceeding generosity.

But, since it is a butterfly featured, let’s also focus on the symbolic meaning, that of TRANSFORMATION. Remember: the lowly caterpillar constructs its own shell, and then, while inside it the mysterious life force melts its existing worm-like form down completely, so that it may soon re-emerge in the new form of a beautiful butterfly.

Meanwhile, MSM “news” continues its attempts to skew our attention in only a certain direction. The so-called news has gotten so outrageously out of kilter that very few of us are paying attention anymore. Just read this morning, that 92% of all MSM coverage of Trump has been negative. Surprised?

Meanwhile, the Pope himself seems to be melting down. Can you believe? Have we returned to the Middle Ages?

Pope Francis: Divisive Devil Responsible for Catholic Pedophile Epidemic

When I mentioned the above post to a friend of mine who works within the Catholic church, he responded:

As for the Pope and the devil etc., that is such bullshit – once again suggesting that ‘oh, gosh its not my fault the devil made me do it!! Feel sorry for me ’cause it really wasn’t me that abused you, it was the devil’  I can’t stand it perhaps as Paul Tillich says, “all institutions, including the church, are inherently demonic.” That “Institutions, he warned, to extend their lives when confronted with collapse, will swiftly betray the stances that ostensibly define them. Only individual men and women have the strength to hold fast to virtue when faced with the threat of death. And decaying institutions, including the church, when consumed by fear, swiftly push those endowed with this moral courage and radicalism from their ranks, rendering themselves obsolete.”

Whew!

What’s really important about these increasingly chaotic times is that we realize we are all highly energized and must find ways to creatively utilize this energy. Like the caterpiller, we are both individually and collectively inside a deep dark place, feeling the life force erupt and move through us, and, especially if we are conscious of these energies that various nefarious forces, including the “news” and our own conditioning, utilize to drive us to project upon others what is actually going on inside ourselves, then we too, can utilize these extraordinary life force energies instead to TRANSFORM whatever remains of the nastiness that has emerged over the last who knows how many decades or centuries, and threatens to destroy not only this country, but the global civilization altogether.

So yeah, let’s put it, importantly, but drily, given the enormous stakes: we seek transformation of our existing body politic/cultural/etc., nothing less. We seek to use the enormous forces erupting within us to melt down the climaxing venality that has infected the body politic for so long. Ultimately, as we navigate through the proliferating Mad Max scenarios dreamed up by those who would kill us off, we will push them all aside to realize and celebrate: WE are the BUTTERFLY.

So, while I do plan to return in this blog to other areas of interest, it seems to me that there is nothing more important now than continuing to counter so-called “news” sources that, by focusing solely or primarily on supposed “rage,” continue to fuel it. I include here twitter, which though I use as a news source, I’m also well aware of the mean tone that infects its atmosphere.

All that said, here is a welcome post, first sent to me by long-time reader and commenter Antony/Tony, who if you recall, I met with personally in California while atttending the Permaculture Convergence.

Most of America not participating in the hysterical rage you see on the news

 

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Paris Tosen: “Why do you need an excuse? If you see a need, fill it. If it moves you, move into it.”

The following facebook post synchronously echoes what I’ve been putting up today and yesterday in response to the Kavanaugh Imbroglio. Only I beg to differ with Paris Tosen. For we CAN “save the world.” And just by doing what he’s talking about. Each of us, filling up with the life energy that courses through all of nature, naturally expresses our own unique and bountiful nature into the world. In this infused state, we cannot help but notice others who are suffering, in need, and we cannot help but reach out to help. For that is who we are, underneath all the programming “they” tried to instill into us; we are caring, compassionate souls, our hearts beating in concert with each other, connected, attuned, and willing.

Yes, Just be here, now, and notice: someone or some situation in your own local horizon, is calling to you, magnetizing you. As we connect with others, without expectation or agenda, but simply with love in our bursting hearts, we remake our world in the image of the divine, which it has been, all along, underneath all the mental stuff that we were taught to smear upon it, assuming either that it’s ours for the taking, or that we’re not good enough, smart enough, or rich enough, to take it!

Forget that grasping attitude. Instead, recognize that each of us, infused with the miracle of life, our quivering, eager bodies standing centered, grounded, linking heaven and earth, our arms reaching out, is deeply engaged in the messy, often confusing third dimensional melee. No matter how foolish we sometimes feel, let us brush fear aside and open — OPEN! — to the universe, ready, willing, and able to be of service wherever needed NOW.

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Let us disengage from “wrap-up smears” and — let us, each of us, work to transform the entire zeitgeist

If you wonder just how mainstream media operates as the main propaganda arm of deep state machinations, check this out: Seething Frog decodes Nancy Pelosi’s remarks last year that were referenced recently by Qanon.

Gradually, little by little, more and more of us begin to wake up to how we’ve been collectively and massively conned.

My own jump into the maelstrom of alt-media on the internet began once I stopped my subscription to the print edition of the New York Times. That was back towards the end of 2010. By the end of January 2011 I had launched this blog, in part to help me “figure out what’s going on.” Seven years later, I realize that there is no way to know “what’s going on” — as if there were one single narrative thread that “connects all the dots.”

To me, this is the real danger of Q: he asks us to figure out what IS the single overarching narrative thread. As if there is one!

But what if everything’s going on all at once! What if whatever can be imagined, has or will probably “come true” somewhere, sometime, by someone? What if there’s no such thing as a “linear chain of cause and effect,” because everything that can be imagined is located in the exact center of an infinite and expanding universe, connected to everything that is, was, and is becoming, both close at hand and far away?

And yet, of course, there is an overall invisible zeitgeist, and we can FEEL it: a certain frequency field that tends to hold everyone inside it as it slowly mutates over time. And we all cannot help but sense that the zeitgeist, now, is charged with violence, hatred, lies, corruption, cover-ups, destruction, murder, in short, sociopathy, on just about every scale.

But we don’t have to participate in any of that. And indeed, most of us don’t! I don’t know about you, but my meetings in daily life with others out in public are just about unfailingly respectful. People in cars around here even pause so that others can turn left in front of them. All this, despite the MSM that tells us of ongoing horrors. As my then newspaper editor husband told me, way back in 1976, when I asked him why the paper doesn’t focus on good news rather than bad news, “Bad news sells.”

And so again, we don’t need to participate in the bad news. Instead, we can, each of us, create our own reality, and invite others into it. Many of us do this already. Others are getting ready. Still others wonder what’s still stopping them, beyond the exegencies of “needing money” to cover ongoing expenses.

Money, of course, is the currency of the matrix. See through the matrix! Recognize its illusory quality. Live below money as far as possible. Open up time for your self, your real self. Connect with your body. Connect, in your body, with nature! Allow nature to nourish you, so that you fill to overflowing. Then express yourself! The more each of us expresses his or her beautiful, unique nature fully into the world, the more we transform the tone, temperature, and poisoned atmosphere of extreme polarization that has had us all caught in smaller and smaller cages for far too long.

Meanwhile, it’s critically important that we learn to deconstruct the ways we have been mind-controlled to be-LIE-ve FAKE NEWS, like the “wrap-up smears” broadcast on MSM megaphones.

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A.K. Reader: The Amaryllis Bud (2004)

After a busy summer, I now return to my Recapitulation Project (thanks to reader Antony/Tony for that name), that is, finding and sharing hundreds of essays and book manuscripts (previously published and not) that I have composed through the decades. Actually, that’s not quite true. I did share one piece not even a month ago, on September 12, and it might be the earliest one extant, namely the 1972 essay “This piece began . . .” 

The following essay, originally a part of my journal, became the second-to-last chapter of my 2007 book, This Vast Being: A Voyage through Grief and Exaltation.

That I happen to unearth this particular essay now is, as usual, synchronous. It features my own process as I attempted to jumpstart my life while still bogged down in grief. How similar is this to the millions of others who now feel their own long buried emotional body activating in these volatile times, and yet struggle as to how to move from contemplation (or fury, or grief) to action? For that is what this morning’s post was about. And here is how I worked with these uncomfortable energies in myself way back in 2004. Hint: pay attention to dreams.

BTW: I see now that a number of my own dreams during that second year following Jeff’s death prefigured my life now, 14 years and one half a Saturn cycle later: several dreams featuring huge, many-roomed construction, one with the question start over or renovation; plus several dreams about  the need for help, not being able to go it alone. Wow!  Green Acres Permaculture Village.

I just went into the basement, to see if I still had the actual paintings I did of the amaryllis bud. Darn. Do not. So difficult, to know when to hold on and when to let go. I do remember at one point impulsively releasing all the paintings that I had not actually framed.

The Amaryllis Bud

January, 2004

I had been warned that the holidays would be difficult. Yet, to my surprise, they were not difficult; indeed Christmas near Boston with my children and grandchildren was so loving it felt like being immersed in a ten-day-long warm bath.

Prior to leaving for Boston, and without realizing its Aquarian import at the time, I had decided to give a party on the anniversary Jeff’s death. I wanted to honor both those who knew him in his short time in Bloomington and those who had helped me during my first difficult year as an isolated new widow in a brand new town. These included the postman (who wrote “deceased” on all Jeff’s bulk mail so I didn’t have to) and the law school dean (who forgave Jeff’s loan), plus neighbors, my art teacher, my handyman, etc. –  all invited as Aquarian equals!

So the entire time I was in Massachusetts I was also subliminally thinking about the upcoming party, concerned that it go well. I am not a party person, and putting on this event felt strange, but something in me felt it was appropriate. Even so, integrating such a mix of people who did not know each other and barely knew me seemed daunting. Jeff’s Dad had generously volunteered to pay for it, so I decided to have the party catered, hoping that good food and service would help create an atmosphere of celebration and honoring.

Meanwhile, in Massachusetts, I was Granny Annie, reading to insatiably curious 3-year-old Kiera, playing on the floor with sweet baby Drew, cooking with my delightful daughter-in-law Sue, hanging out at the kitchen table with my two full-hearted sons.

Nights, however, were another matter. (As another new widow with whom I compare notes said about the holidays: “in the daytime I was fine, even organized a sing-a-long at the piano with my family one evening, but at night? I would climb in bed and wonder what I was doing there. Nothing felt real.”) So I was fine and felt loved and loving, but I also felt like an alien. My unconscious used sleeptime to continue the mysterious personal overhaul that follows the death of a soul mate.

Take this dream, for instance, one of a series having to do with structural change:

I am walking around a very large two or three story house, kind of like an old manor. I have just bought it? With Jeff? It has many large rooms, but is in dire need of renovation. I walk onto the large lawn, notice that the white paint on the whole back side of the manor house is peeling badly. It looks decrepit.

I wonder if, instead of renovating, I should raze it and start over.

An outer world situation then indicated just how ambivalent my current mood. For, upon opening the front door on my return to Bloomington, I noticed that it squeaked. Over the next few days the squeak got louder and louder, turning into an ear-curdling screech. I knew this was a perfect metaphor for my reluctance to open my door and admit people in. And of course, I fretted as to how I would direct them to the back door and avoid the screech. A dear neighbor across the street, an old man, offered to fix it. First he oiled, then greased the hinges. The door still screeched. He concluded that it must have been hung wrong. But there was no time to rehang it before the party, to be held Sunday evening, January 4, 2004, from 5 to 7 pm.

On Saturday it started to rain, and by Sunday, the water was cascading in sheets; radio and television announced road closures due to flooding and rivulets began to creep across my basement floor. I worried if any of the 35 people invited would come. The caterer was to arrive at 4 pm, but due to his restaurant basement flooding, he was an hour late. Amazingly, he and the guests all came within a minutes of each other, so I just had to tell the first people to go to the back door and all the others followed.

This initial crush in inclement weather was probably key to the party’s success. Everybody helped take food and utensils from the caterers’ hands as they ran back and forth through muck from the truck to the back door. By the time everybody was inside and dried off, our flooded basements had bonded us; food and wine flowed freely.

The party ended way past the stated hour, closing with a toast to Jeff, while gazing at his benevolent beaming face hanging high on the living room wall, over all the family photos.

Afterwards, I walked around the empty house in a daze, amazed that the party was actually over, and that it had exceeded expectations.

Then, suddenly, I felt the urge to do ceremony. My personal ceremony. To close this first and primary year of grief in my own way, privately.

As usual, I lit a candle and called in the four directions, plus any guides that might want to come. I was now quite comfortable with doing ceremony alone, and had not even included personal objects of his on the little altar created for the occasion for many months. His presence, likewise, strong at first, had faded — until he arrived with his group during my November ceremony.

So you can imagine my surprise when I noticed, during my meditation, that again Jeff’s spirit was present! And again he seemed to be with others. There he was, serene and cheerful, still delighted to have rejoined his soul group, operating as a group mind.

Then, I experienced the most peculiar sensation: the feeling of many hands on my head, covering my head like a cap, in benediction. I got the impression that I was being told, “You did a good job.” With what? I wondered? The party? This past year? My life? Life with Jeff?

At any rate, once I came out of meditation and started to write down the experience in my journal, I began to doubt myself. I must have been making it all up, I thought, and wrote that down too.

Within days of this event, I received another dream:

I am trying to follow in the giant footsteps of a shaman. Must complete a task which is impossible, until I allow others to help me.

Meanwhile, however, I was still dealing with grief, still needing my aloneness. On New Years Eve, only days before the party, I had gone to the movie “Cold Mountain,” and on the way home, surprised myself when the keening — so prevalent during the first few months after he died, but rarer since then — that had germinated within me for the entire month of December finally erupted. There I was, driving home at night with headlights glaring into my teary eyes as I erupted into the usual howling, images of Nicole Kidman and her doomed lover swirling into images of Jeff and me.

From my journal: “Very strange. It’s like we were all one being, or that the four of us swirled into each other and the intense emotions of love and grief and loss were moving through all of us. Felt the usual protection, enveloped in an aura of love, while undergoing this.”

The next night, this dream:

I am talking with Jeff, who is in a different body. Or, not in a body, but there is a body there, representing him. It’s a male body, sort of wooden. There seems to be another spirit there too, who came with him. I am asking Jeff questions, and he is doing his best to answer. Since he is moving objects around, I ask, how is this possible? He says, offhandedly, like the answer is obvious, they use energy to move them around. Another question, maybe my last one, is about whether or not he wishes he were in a body (since I sense it would be more convenient, if he wants to work within the material dimension), and his answer seems to be ambivalent. He enjoys his freedom, but he would like to have the ease of working in this material world. I also sense that he would like to be in a body so that we could feel each other, hold each other.

An addendum to this dream: During the month of January, on several occasions I was puzzled to find fingernail clippings on the living room floor (I used to bug him about clipping his nails and leaving them lying around). I sensed that he is leaving them for me to find, since there was no other way for them to be there.

January proved to be much more difficult than December. It was not the holidays, but the anniversary of his death that got to me. I was starting Year Two without him, and felt sluggish, bogged down, my sadness and grief mirrored by a persistent low-level lung infection and by continued gloom and rain after the four inches received the weekend of his party.

(By the way, the day after the party I had called my handyman, who had been unable to come to the party, to come reinstall the door).  He took one look at it, pushed up hard on the frame above the door several times, and . . . no screech! Thanks to the party, the door to my life could now open and close without squeaking.)

In mid-January, in an effort to jumpstart my stalled life, I decided to dedicate Saturday and Sunday afternoons to art, at least two hours each day. I began by drawing the amaryllis plant that a friend had brought as a gift the night of the party. My journal records how that decision then segued into the unexpected. “For the past six days I have spent two or more hours a day painting the opening of an amaryllis bud. An amazing experience. The flower grows faster at its leading end, as matter is more and more differentiated, more and more delicate. So I have to keep up with its growth . . . And I seem to be getting better at painting it as it grows. It caught me. One day I was just painting the bud, and the next day I found myself painting it again. Then again, and again, etc.”

But, I discovered, once the plant fully flowered I could not paint it. Though I tried several times, my attempts were dull and lifeless.

So, looking as usual, at events in the outer world as mirroring inner conditions, I realized that I am still a bud, that while I can now enjoy a bud’s first growth spurts, my own full flowering lies in the future, and cannot be anticipated or rushed.

Meanwhile, my artistic efforts were applauded in a dream

of being at a chaotic construction site for a huge new school. I was in one of the large four-story square pods of which it was composed, and in the middle signing up for classes. It seems to be the art department, with lots of different kinds and sizes of notebooks, paper, etc., and I must take one of each for my own.

The exciting sense of new construction by night, however, was still being stymied by lung and sinus congestion, and the continuing sluggish feeling of no energy, and no motivation, no reason to go on. In my journal: “So, on balance, it feels like I am still in transition between the old life and the new. But that the new has more energy in it. Something about me and Jeff is keeping me stymied at some level?”

On January 17th, I dream that I am driving the car I owned when we lived in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, up a mountain valley. The mountain reminds me of Snow King, behind the town of Jackson.

As I go up the tracks get narrower and narrower. I end up next to the top on extremely narrow tracks, and turn the wheels to the right to keep the car from going down. Even then, I have a sense that I may have a problem with the car, backing up.

I get out, and go out on the well used-trail.

I am anxious about the trip down, and when I survey the situation, notice that the track that the back tires are on (turned to the right, at right angles to straight ahead) is so narrow that the two ends of the tires stick out over nothingness. Now I am extremely concerned that I will not turn the wheels properly to align them with the narrow track, which will mean that I will slip off the track, rather than being able to back up. I realize I need someone to help me see the back end of the car while I am trying to back it up. And actually, the situation looks impossible, whether or not someone helps me.

Again the need for help, for not thinking I have to be independent all the time, is present. But beyond that, the dream puzzled and unnerved me.

Three days later, from my journal: “I think I begin to understand that dream. It has to do with ‘coming back to earth’ after the otherworldly experiences of the past year. How do I get back down? I’m afraid of falling down. And afraid I can’t do it without help. Or can’t do it at all. The reference to my old car and our old place may have to do with the fact that these fears are those of the old me.

Then came the dream that still fuels me, and perhaps will for many many years. A very powerful dream, of which only fragments remain.

Of being with Jeff; though he is invisible, his spirit is very strong, and fills the same space that his body did. Telepathically he encourages me to hold him, to hold on, just like I always did when he was alive, using now, his spirit as a battery. In the holding on he feels as solid and substantial as when he was in body.

Next scene:

I am walking slowly, haltingly, groping my way, like into a void. Either I am blind or it is so dark and foggy that I can see nothing of what lies ahead. But it doesn’t matter. I am filled with his presence, loved and protected as I move into the future.

This dream was so strong it felt like it resided at the bottom of a well, at the center of a dream within a dream, a frame within a frame; or better, at the inmost core of a beating heart.

Meanwhile, rain had been followed by unusual cold. I didn’t dare expose my still-congested lungs to the cold for fear of making the situation worse. So, though my low-level physical illness was gradually clearing, since I wasn’t energized by my usual long walks, both the feeling of being stuck inside the house and the lack of desire for life persisted.

One day at the end of January I decided I had to take a step into the future, despite my depression. That even though my lungs weren’t quite healthy, and I had no real desire to do so, I still needed to get outside, and do something that was so different from my usual routine that it would shock me into another mood. I decided to go snowshoeing in the nearby state park, telling myself that even if I only did it for ten minutes it would be enough; at least I would have done that one new thing. I loaded the snowshoes in the car and drove out to Brown County. When I turned into the entrance to the park I noticed that it cost $4 per car for the day; I almost turned back, figuring it would hardly be worth it if I only stayed ten minutes.

I decided to push on through that little obstacle too, and plopped down the four bucks.

Amazingly enough, I snowshoed for 45 minutes in the trees of those gently rolling hills. Though of course I missed Jeff, as he used to love to snowshoe too, and I regretted giving away his snowshoes only a few days after he died. (Widows are warned about this tendency to immediately just give things away. The snowshoes were my one impulsive move in that direction. After that I became more circumspect, recognizing the danger of not truly knowing my own mind in the immediate shocking aftermath.)

The sun slanted through the bare branches onto stiff old pockmarked snow as I chugged along, alone but okay, growing more and more aware of the light and shadow of that silent day, my legs powerful from my daily morning Tai Chi routine, memories of snowshoeing and skiing in wild Wyoming cheering me on. It was as if I was clearing old fuzzy cobwebs out of my skull. I was that amaryllis bud, thirsty, finally given water to grow.

I came home from my little adventure tired but strangely energized. Amazingly, my lungs actually felt better! Immediately, I decided to 1. paint my study, and 2. buy and install the L-shaped desk I have wanted all my life. What better way to inaugurate my new year, my new life, my new dedication to the writing life?

My young cat-and-house-sitter agreed to be hired for these tasks. We had fun. Painting the room took a few hours, installing and putting together the desk of my dreams took most of a day.

I sit here, writing this piece, at my beautiful new desk, in a room newly painted in a warm color called “wheatfields.” The back and forth between old and new continues. I haven’t put the drawers in the desk yet, or put the hutch together that goes on top of it, and my right hand still bears traces of a burst blister from screwing in all those screws. But I have survived. And though blindfolded, and still groping, Jeff lives deep inside me, holding a bud of hope for my thriving future.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Post-Kavanaugh Imbroglio: Whence the “body politic?” The choice is critical. It is OURS.

The time is now. The key is action: put passion to work for the common good.

Listen, as Vice-President Pence launched the historic vote to confirm new Supreme Court Justice Brett Kavanaugh: Hysterical female screeches from the gallery.

From my Kavanaugh Imbroglio post October 5th, only two days ago:

Meanwhile, I just realized this morning that Venus turned to go retrograde today at 10° Scorpio, and did so in a near square to Mars, now at 8° Aquarius, pressing towards exactness with Rx Venus between now and October 12. Venus itself starts out in Scorpio and then slides back to 28° Libra, turning to go direct on November 27th.

Meanwhile, only three days past Venus turning to go retrograde, we will have the October 8th New Moon in Libra. Both Scorpio and Libra focus on one-to-one relationships. Mars rules Scorpio and Venus rules Libra. Mars/Venus: male/female wars.

Thus, between now, October 6th, and October 12th, crowd-stirring Mars in Aquarius will square passionate revenge-seeking Venus in Scorpio to massively promote the “political correctness” of “Me too,” on steroids. Yuck. And to think that I used to be a “feminist”!

 

Yesterday’s confirmation vote began at precisely 3:45 PM, when the cloture on the FBI investigation ran out. War-like Mars was just beginning to cross over the Ascendant (that which shows to the world). Passionate, normally large-hearted Jupiter in Scorpio, followed by passionate and aggrieved Venus in Scorpio, which remember, squares Mars through October 12th, was about to cross the the Midheaven (the path).

(In assessing any chart, I first look for planets in or near both Ascendant and Midheaven. This will show “what’s up,” what, of the entire configuration, will be expressed externally.)

 

 

Thus, the chief feature I had identified in that Venus Retrograde chart was emphasized as the roll call began, and punctuated, by those furious, hysterical screams.

But the story doesn’t end here. Most likely, Christine Blasey Ford, and her million dollar Go Fund Me bribe(?), will be thrown under the bus immediately, especially if the FBI next probes into the truth of her testimony. Ford symbolizes  weaponized Venus in Scorpio, spinning a grievous sexual power-over tale hidden until now. But weaponized Mars in Aquarius (symbolized, here as the rage-ful Democratic Party) doesn’t just stop there. It will, and is already beginning, to throw her under the bus. The ruse didn’t work. Ford will not pursue her “case” against Kavanaugh.  On to the next pretend drama.

But let’s not stop here. Let’s notice, truly notice, what has been, and continues to be, happening to the “body politic” in this country. Clif High ascribes the unusual and sustained collective emotional volatility to incoming cosmic energies, driving everybody crazy. He says it’s best stay away from crowds, perhaps even for the next several years!

Many “leftists” say that Trump is the “cause” of it all. That his habit of speaking exactly what he seems to be thinking, and calling people names — “Crooked Hillary,” etc. — has ruined civic discourse in this country. And that may well be true. Or it may be that he functions as the courageous/foolhardy point of the spear that has been thrust into the side of a bloated, bloviating “body politic” that has been pretending civil discourse while hiding strong, polarized feelings under a blather of “civilized” language, for far too long.

Coreys Digs has an interesting post on this phenomenon, and commends Brett Kavanaugh for his authentic emotional eruption in the face of what he claims are unwarranted allegations.

Kavanaugh’s Temperament Creates A Powerful Ripple Effect

Of course, Democrats claimed that Kavanaugh showed that he can’t be trusted, since he got emotional rather than pretending to be rational in the face of the attempted ruination of his character, family, and career.

I’d rather put this entire imbroglio in a larger context, and say that Clif High is right, and  that whatever the “cause,” all of us are, and have been, feeling strong eruptive energies that have activated long buried feelings within our heretofore largely unnoticed and/or unmentionable, emotional bodies. The price of “civilized” behavior has been far too high; we cannot go on pretending to be nice for ever. Yes. The “body politic” has been activated at a deeper level; and it is PISSED.

Here’s something we can do, and I ask myself and my readers to practice this meditation over the next five days, during the time when Venus and Mars screech into and through the grating friction of their exact 90° square: let us notice — become aware of, without reacting to — our strong buried, and emergent feelings (Venus in Scorpio); let us notice — become aware of, without reacting to — how our left-brained mental, ideological identification with a particular group (Mars in Aquarius) polarizes, blinds us to the concerns of all Others, whoever they may be, turning them into The Enemy; and let us notice — become aware of, without reacting to — how our powerful emergent feelings are being corralled and weaponized by media to buttress whatever group we identify with, or its opposite.

Without such awareness, the result will be chaos.

With such awareness, we can transform failed left-brained rationality into right/left (whole) brained, FULL-HEARTED, courageous action right where we live, in our own relatively local sphere of influence. The time for watching and critiquing, sitting in our chairs, pretending or aiming to be know-it-alls, is over. We must now show up, for whatever calls our attention, bearing our own unique skills and experience,  and utilizing this magnificent emerging passion to benefit the common good. If each of us does this, now, and continues for the forseeable future, to show up, to ACT, then the world will begin to change, and we will all have participated, with graciousness and equanimity, in a miraculous transformation of what may be the most tumultuous and dangerous period in all of human history on our beloved mother planet.

I feel for Kavanaugh and his family. I also feel for Christine Blasey Ford. For whether or not either of them be lying or telling the truth, whether or not either of them are mind-controlled by political affiliation and/or in Blasey Ford’s case, by CIA MK Ultra training, both are human beings who have been pummelled by political forces way beyond their control. Like all of us, they both, no matter how “guilty” or “innocent,” deserve con-sideration. Let us go with the stars, as they wheel spaciously through the sky. No one deserves to die or be obliterated so that another may live. All of us, and all of the species who surround and inhabit us, all the bacteria, plants, animals, planets, stars and galaxies, live and breathe here, together, bathed in the same cosmic soup, awake, aware, and utterly beloved.

 

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The Kavanaugh Imbroglio: Two ex-CIA officers sound out

Two ex-CIA officers sound out on the import of the Kavanaugh imbroglio that has both brutally exposed the lawless, lying machinations of the Deep State/Shadow Government and revealed just how high the stakes are for We, the People.

The Intelligence Assessment with Kevin Shipp: The Dark Left Agenda, what does the Kavanaugh hearing mean?

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