I very much appreciated both the timing synchronicity that linked yesterday’s post to the mysterious person who sent the Forkel booklet of essays to me, and the fact that yesterday as my daily task for the long-running Recapitulation Project (to collect and eventually archive all written work from a lifetime of intuitive Sagittarian expression), I just “happened” to be retyping a long-winded essay from 1985 which meditates on the same deep, extensive, and yes, “apocalyptic” (i.e., revealing) issues Forkel concentrates upon in his “Babylon Apocalypse” booklet.
So I offer here an equally long, turgid introduction to my longwinded 1985 essay (mea culpa!), reposted here as a PDF, and introduced by a true story I remembered from 1974 that preceded those extensive ruminations 35 years ago. The story refers to a hitchhiker in San Francisco and her conversation with the driver. I happened to be another hitchhiker, picked up at the same time, who sat silent in the back seat and witnessed the iconic exchange.
As you will learn, even just from the 1974 story itself, the thickly complex sociological and cultural resonances between then, the 1970s and 1980s, and NOW, 2020, are uncanny — on lots of levels. Some may think this suggests, or even “proves,” that “nothing has changed.” That the human race is condemned to extinction via its longstanding and still largely unconscious beLIEf in infinite resources (to exploit) on a finite planet.
But I’m here to tell you that the world has changed, even “progressed . . .” and in a very different direction from what still appears now to be the final stages of the decades old (or is it centuries old?) Marxist, Communist, Liberal, Leftist “Green New Deal” NWO Globalist Plan.
How do I “know” this? I just do. I am Sagittarian, with my Sun itself sitting at 27° exactly conjunct the Galactic Center. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, eh?
(But that really IS the position of my Sun.)
Okay. Here goes.
Look around you! Even when out among the muffled, shuffling sheeple, do you not see/feel little sparks of awareness, like fireflies, blinking in and out, lighting up the night?
And especially, check inside yourself! Because it looks to me like the 2020 Covid Plandemic really is transmogrifying into an extraordinary, multilevel tipping point, spearheaded by the Frontline Doctors, who suddenly appeared in the public eye on social media exactly one week ago today, and continue to roil the collective waters, despite being banned, censored, continually taken down from one media platform after another, and in the case of the founder, Simone Gold, M.D.(and J.D.), fired from her position as an Board-Certified Emergency Room Physician. Gold is going to fire back, and BTW, has hired Julian Wood, attorney for smiling, MAGA hat wearing teen Nick Sandmann who has won his cases against CNN and the Washington Post, reaping multimillions, and who tweeted out a couple of days ago: “Two down, six to go.”
Like Nick, these frontline doctors are also showing the way, taking personal responsibility for what they know from personal experience to be true, and suffering/enjoying the consequences. They inspire us all.
Despite the massive and constantly amped up fear porn continually broadcast to a disembodied, mind-controlled, and screen-addicted public, we can thank both these docs and the many other other righteous experts who have come forth like rain over social media, plus continuously changing and misleading statistics, fake science, useless testing, fake experts like Fauci, Birx, Gates, the NWO and the CDC and NIH, plus the contradictory, stringent, and confusing social “rules” of Covid-19 for the Great Awakening of more and more of us who now recognize the absurdity of this slow-rolling MSM, Medical Mafia attempted Global Coup and highly political pre-presidential election plan to get rid of Trump, keep us separated, muffled, and eventually vaccinated, chipped, permanently locked in to a Social(ist) Credit Score that sees all and dings us one point if we even cross the street in the wrong place.
We are awake, and we are laughing our heads off, throwing ridicule upon the fools who think they can put one over on us truly alive human beings.
Yes, more and more of us are awakening — to the primacy of our own bodies, to our beautiful wise bodies as our personal portion of the aware, deep, wise Earth body, to our individual sovereignty and our heart-based communion with one another and all other species, as we learn from them to re-root into this sacred common ground rolling around itself, dancing with its planetary neighbors, bending this way and that way in its angle to the Sun, while the entire solar system sails silent and streaming vibrations, through the Milky Way galaxy inside the vast being of the infinite beyond.
Plus: back here on Earth, more and more of us are also waking up to the accelerating contradictions in our relationship to the accelerating complexities of technology: how though it seems to help us, it gets us addicted to dopamine clicks, serves nefarious and insidious agendas of which we were previously innocent and unaware, and meanwhile disconnects us from our own bodies, from each other, and from Earth herself in increasingly horrifying ways; and even, yes, CONTROLS (Saturn) and OPPRESSES (Pluto) us increasingly, little by little, like slowly boiling frogs, leading to that singularity point where we deplorable humans will be transhumanized into machines, a la dystopian Agenda 30, soulless, interchangeable AI robots for alien overlords.
Nope. Not going to happen.
So, though it may seem like the fabled, idealistic, utopian “back to the land” movement of the ’60s is over, it is decidedly not over. Embodied Elders like myself from that time know this: the eternal present of seemingly neverending apocalyptic crisis hides an evolving, magical, multidimensional miracle, enacted by every single human being who wakes up to his or her own native capacity for creation.
How do we wake up and utilize this capacity? By recognizing the critical value of the “ego” — not just as a projected (usually upon Trump), denied, or glorified personal feature, and not just as a thick mental wall between self and world, self and the unconscious, rendering us the walking dead. Though ego is still usually used that way — and it is certainly the way we were mind-controlled from infancy to use it — glorify in it (psychopathy), project it onto the hated or desired “Other” (division, conflict, war) and/or feel ashamed of it (victimization) and thus deny it — the original function of ego is NOT any of that, in fact is entirely other than that.
When utilized with full awareness, the ego transforms from a Saturnine wall into a powerful Saturnian “focusing mechanism,” channeling Plutonian energy with strong (Jupiter) intent (Saturn) through our open hearts, from inside to outside, and utilized to create, maintain, and regenerate the manifold material forms (Jupiter/Saturn/Pluto) that we CHOOSE, according to values (Jupiter) that reflect our freshly re-membered ancient selves, in magical, divine contact with Self, each other, our magnificent Earthly nest sailing through its cosmic home.
Please realize: without this focusing mechanism we call “ego,” nothing, literally nothing, would get done. But lots does get done, and plenty of people now alive are doing it.
Just what is “getting done,” just what material forms are encouraged, allowed, demanded, repeated, defended, maintained, dreamed up, etc., is the issue. Which brings values into play and makes Ethics the most important perennial subject of our individual and common concern.
In this old RAMA essay, I refer to “the golden cord,” and state:
“Somewhere along the line we snapped the golden cord of our umbilicus. We forgot that it is we who first imagined these things [the often destructive material forms currently in the world], we who are responsible for their continued existence. Man, originally the master over the forms he created, is now their servant, mesmerized . . .”
RAMA AND THE GOLDEN CORD
By Ann Kreilkamp
One fine San Francisco day in 1974, a very large, very black woman stepped onto a street. Swathed in bright colors, fingers circled in rings, a single small diamond piercing the side of one nostril, Rama stood there sure, stable, grounded.
She stuck out her thumb.
A pale white man in a big old car slowed, stopped. Rama glided over and opened the door, “You want a ride downtown?” he yelled. “Yes,” she said, “thank you.” Royally, with great deliberation, Rama placed herself into the front seat, closed the door, and folded her hands in her lap.
The pale white man is nervous. Why he picked up this exotic creature, he’ll never know. He’s not the kind to pick up hitchikers. But there she was, black as night, dressed like a figure from some ancient legend, feet apart, her center of gravity a plumb line to the center of the earth. Before he knew it, his foot had gone off the gas and slammed on the brake. Oops!
The sun, shone bright on blue waters circling the city. Seagulls circled through low swift wisps of fog. They drove into the morning through choked streets.
“Nice day, huh?” he said, glancing at her, nervous. Rama nodded, perfunctory.
Rama sat stately, silent. The man glanced over at her again. “You know,” he said, cocking his head at the abandoned gas station they were passing, “I used to manage a gas station, and then they had to close it down. Not enough gas, they said. But I don’t’ believe it. They’re making it up, trying to squeeze out the little guy, to make more profit for themselves.”
Rama ignores him. He doesn’t mind. He just needs somebody to talk at. He feels so uneasy, nervous — and not just because Rama’s in his car.
Only a month ago things were going fine. Then all hell broke loose. “They” call it a world-wide oil shortage — and now he is out of a job.
Oil shortages were the first visible manifestation of what quickly became known as “the energy crisis.” And everybody was talking about. It.
The energy crisis had replaced idle chatter about the weather. Something had changed, and he didn’t like it. It didn’t feel good. It felt ominous.
Both his life and his values were being altered by this mysterious spy thriller called “international events” — involving politics, economics, and God only knows what else. All he knows is, now he’s out of a job and blaming the other guy, feeling sorry for himself. Rama, he assumes, will offer him sympathy. Or at least lend a willing ear.
Instead, she swivels her head, catches his eye, and says, her voice deep, resounding, “The energy crisis? HA!”
“The energy crisis, my friend, is IN US!” she thundered, pounding her fist on her chest.