I want to thank Laura Bruno, who, in a private communication, echoed a conclusion I had already come to and made me realize it’s time to “put it out there,” here.
Something in me has changed. Decidedly. I’m getting bored with trying to figure out “the truth” in all these ever-changing, weirder and weirder psy-ops —whether it’s Hurricane Sandy or Sandy Hook; Boston Bombing or Drone Bombs Everywhere; what happened to Malaysian Flight 17 or 370; just which “radical” and “moderate” groups are fighting in Ukraine or Syria; and now, of course, the latest, the one that’s being drawn out for all its worth, “Ebola! Eek!” Somehow the two words, Ebola and Eek, have to go together.
The point is, each of these psy-ops offers increasing confusion as its calling card. Those of us who think we’re ahead of the MSM game try to psych out “what really happened” amidst all the contradictory information, the sliding, spreading, multilayered obfuscation — that drags out just long enough so that whatever else they’re doing with any particular psy-op, they’re both sowing F.E.A.R. (false evidence appearing real) and pride (that we can figure it out, and somehow, in doing so, get a handle on the bastards) — all the while of course, taking our attention from something else that’s really important that they do not want us to know about.
So, I’d say, maybe the principal clue as to whether or not an event, short or drawn out, is a psy-op, is to just ask ourselves: How confusing is it? Why does it keep getting more confusing rather than less? ‘Cuz if that’s what’s going on, then we’re being played for suckers.
I’m done. I will report early stories on any new psy-op, but not get dragged into the ever mutating details and perspectives. I have better things to do. Like, today, this first glorious, mostly sunny day after more than a week of rain and grey skies. I just now mucked out the GANG pond, harvested the reachable lotus plants from this summer and placed them on garden beds. Wish I had taken a “before” picture. Here’s what it looks like now.
From the west:
From the east:
Garden bed with lotus to compost there in place.
Unfortunately, the leaves have yet to fall from the tree above the pond, so there’s one more muck job before winter. (Not to mention lots more harvesting and preserving, of ever-renewing chard, kale, beans, tomatoes, collards, plus carrots, beets and other fall plantings.)
If you’ve been following the photos of the pond through the years, you realize as I do that the pond, which takes rain water off the roofs of both houses, is gradually turning into a wetland. I suppose we could force it not to, drain all the water (somehow move all the fish and frogs to do so), dig underneath the three layers of old carpet and rubber to the roots of lotus and cattails and some bamboo-ish plant that have rooted in there, and fill the pond again. But let’s face it, our beloved pond is evolving, too. “You never step into the same river, twice.” — Heraclitus. Or the same pond!
It’s getting so that within ten minutes of being in the garden, I’ve already surrendered to that vibrant, changing, utterly mysterious living world. So grateful!
People ask what the pond is “for.” “Nothing.” I tell them. It’s useless, like art. The pond, with its critters, harbors the soul of the GANG garden.