Reflections on Cicada Mania

Look closely.

Check out the “bug red” eyes. Scary, eh?

Every 17 years they emerge, like clockwork. I was here in Bloomington the last time they erupted; it’s one way for me to tell just “how far I’ve come” since then. Seventeen years ago I was still finding my feet as a new widow; now I’m the “matriarch” of Green Acres Permaculture Village. Fancy that! Wonder where I’ll be when the next eruption arrives, in 2038 . . . That will make me 95. Well, both parents lived to 96, so who knows? Besides, I now tell people that “I’ve decided to do four cycles of Saturn” (that’s four cycles of 30 years each). Joke? Again, who knows! Though I will need to work on the kind of transformation cicadas and butterflies perform in order to get there!

The cicada eruption began this week, which means, say the experts, that the soil had warmed up to 64°. And now the days have finally turned warm, even hot, this whole week. I’ve yet to hear the cicada choruses sing to one another, however. And that’s the very best part of this amazing 17-year cycle.

I read up on cicadas a bit, and discovered that they are only capable of flying a few feet . . . hmmm . . . I guess that’s bullshit, because the cicada who accidentally ran into me in the middle of a street then drunkenly kept flying at least 40 feet. Never did see him land.

So watch out for “experts,” folks. Here, too. Sometimes our personal experience is what we must learn how to trust. And if there’s anything the Covid Con taught us, or should have taught us, is never trust experts when your own intuition says otherwise. 

But then, those who don’t trust their intuition are quickly paralyzed by fear, which is the intent, of course. When we are “deathly afraid,” then we can’t think straight. Which means we can’t make real choices either. Not only our minds and hearts, but our free will freezes up.

So, what are the globalists going to roll out next, now that the Covid Con is collapsing? Why, the fake alien attack from space! Of course! See next post, which I’m about to compose now.

Oh yeah, and why every 17 years? That number has taken on a very interesting significance, as most of us know by now. Hint: the letter Q. I betcha the experts have absolutely no idea why or how this 17-year-cycle exists. How could they? Nature is infinitely mysterious. All anyone’s expertise comes down to, no matter how extensive or how deep, is but a teensy-weensy illusory blip in the vastness.

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