It’s Always Darkest Before the Dawn

Dateline: February 9, 2018. Sky Valley, Cal. 

The dow dropped 1500 points yesterday; 666 on Friday. The Bond markets shuddering as global confidence in our government and the currency our bonds back circles the drain— symptoms of #maga as Mojo Jojo Trump’s magick monkey-at-a-Twitter-typewriter supervillian superpowers. We’ve dwelt in a six-bubble market for too long; in all bubble bursts, a bull market precedes each burst by no more than 18 months. History shows us: The first 11 of these months are all spectacular inflation of market valuation propagated by unsubstantiated manias; the last five are always a sputtering wildly swinging pendulum, which concresces with whatever the pestilence rotting our markets’ cores reaching critical bloat and rupturing.

As of this writing, we at T-minus 5 months and counting until the next economic catastrophe— this current bull was born under the sign of Aquarius, January 21, 2017– the day our POTUS, Donald Trump, did solemnly swear to “execute” the office he was elected to— and the neoliberal nazis running our Ponzi scheme markets and usurious fiat currencies rejoiced: “Free at last! Free at last! Thank god almighty we’re free at last!” At most, you have until July 2018 before the shit hits the fan in ways you simply have never fathomed. Your blindness to these matters, having just come out of two successive periods of such abuses in the last twenty years, is a kind of illiterate ignorance that should be impossible in a reasoned society. That it persists at all, let alone in circumstances as evidently dire as these, demonstrates a plague of congenital retardation and deranged denial has descended upon us all— and is dragging us by the balls to Hell.

The global cultural landscapes are fractured in uneven, ever-shifting planes of illusion-crusts, slipping and grinding over and below one another, the great planes investing every layer of human being with increasing agitation, dis-ease, anxiety, and uncertainty— and in their rumbling fractious motions casting solitary eddies of solemn loneliness that single us out from our tribes and swallow us whole, one by one. Depression and hopelessness swell as the full heft of our seeming-futility is felt before the enormity of the Hell opening round us. There is a mystery ailment— a sickness, a malady, a plague, a cancer, a species of parasites— that has all by the balls, and we convince ourselves, one in all, that we know the causes for such falls. In fact, the truth is— and we know this— we can’t see them at all. 

We are drowning, ladies and gentleman, or at least perceive ourselves as such. Truth is closer to this: after Larsen-C, we’ve plunged headlong off the cliff of our bloat mistaken as progress, and the pool we stand in, the pool of culture we experience ourselves as drowning in, has yet to be flooded and filled with the tidal wave splash of our culture’s impact as it slams, at last, dead into the ground. 

Then, ladies and gentleman, it is then that we will truly drown— if, indeed, we are so blessed as to survive this mighty fall. Understand: with with six-fold-plus burst, the walls of your very Reality will fall; you will discover to your dismay the truth of what’s happened to human you: that industry and capital and commodity have rendered you livestock: fat, stupid, lazy, and easy prey.

Pray, each of you then, that in that aftermath the madness that has so far gripped you eases enough that when help swims near you are clear enough of the world and the aims of others toward you and your children most of all that you recognize your allies, noble Valkyrie and Slayers and Spartans, her help, and receive it calm, trusting, and ready to learn. Pray you do not misrecognize the intents of those truly nefarious allies from the prior era, whose lies comforted you into a complacency you congratulated yourselves mistakenly as adhering to a measured and seeming-sage virtue. It is these men and women who have misled you and us to precipice, who have deceived us of its passing, and who now wait in anticipation, circling as sharks, waiting for us to plunge at last into their clutches, swelling hungrily in the depths below. Pray you recognize in this crucial moment of landing not merely the revelation of the true and virtuous good— the LIFE GUARD— selflessly acting on you and your children’s behalf distinguished from the deceptions of the hungry vile, but that if you should mistake the good for evil, you not be so fool as to drown her in her approach to save you— lest you deny others, also, of her and her sisters’ desperately needed angelic interventions.

In this all, which we are consumed by human folly after human folly, dramas we suppose are the harsh contacts generated by blunt words and genitals’ touchings (or threats thereof), dramas which we insist are earth shaking and shattering, so much that we can ignore that our obsessions with these petty social follies, obviously long played against us as distractions from the aims the evil succeed in accomplishing every day by coercing us to use our bodies to their nefarious advantage, and to reward us for maintaining our ignorance through rigorous, faithful self-application of cognitive dissonances and blue pill after blue pill denials. These follies are world-shattering and show-stopping only by first world white privilege fiat— but not so nearly nor dearly limited to the narrow, vain scope we first world fools apply to the bigger picture. As we chase the follies of what we suppose are the idiot patriarchy’s (true, but not so true as to merit exclusive attention and causal diagnosis, let alone redress via some mechanistic repair modes, wrested by virtue of complaint masked as truth carried by the idiot presumption that it is always and ever TRUTH that wins the day), as we are easily consumed and dutifully solely attentive to human concerns alone, we miss again and again the blatant and obvious dangers swelling around us. It isn’t just our culture that crashes; it isn’t just your liberty that is in danger. Your planet, also, followed you and Larsen-C over that precipice and into freefall. What world will be inherited by your grandchildren from you and me?

We are blind to the whole of our circumstance, and we accomplish this blindness and sustain it via rigorous application of practices which apply Classical and Operant Conditioning across a manifold spectrum of industrial vehicles and their delivery modes— prevailing to reward any and all forms of cognitive dissonance and celebrity branding as blanket against the truth of our stupid, vain, social scandals. In this, unwitting, dutiful submission of Facebook likes, we have rent ourselves to the devil, to the Luciferian, to the monsters of our times. In this, unwitting, pridefully, and with a loyal stupidity that, once unmasked, would in politer times shame us each for a lifetime, we have invited and awarded ourselves for accepting the rewards that come with being successfully trained— to neither be ape nor human, but consumer: A walking mouth, a boca human— the feeding tube self— you insisting “you” exist is an I between your eyes, exclusively in your fifth jointed appendage flanging dizzingly off the bottom of you, flailing wildly in the void of space— your precious, petty periscope head, and it’s third to form eight pound lump of fat cephalic brain— the central, unquestionable tenet of this very, very dangerous game of human being. 

The consumer: Man as industrially groomed livestock. Federally subsidized, of course. Ladies: This is precisely why your womb is the most consequential matter in this game, precisely why unleashing your womb is the aim of the enemy: Only from betwixt your legs, only from your loins, can they receive their veal. Gentlemen: You and I are ever replaceable in this scheme. Every single member of the fairer sex is irreplaceable treasures, and the enemy knows this all too well. The more of these cows the enemy has in its clutches, the greater the yield of your children, whom they prize as their veal. One bull, the strongest and most vital, or the weakest, least adrenalized, and most complacent, the enemy knows is all it takes to inseminate the whole of them. 

Gentlemen, your children, born and unborn, are in deadly, mortal peril; your women are naked, alone, and screeching, rightfully, that they are waking to the the nightmare shock that you and I have failed resolutely and resoundingly in protecting our most precious treasures: our living futures, waiting for their crack at being, from the precious crucible of every one of our women, all of whom can be and are to be cherished and regarded as: Mothers. As each wakes, she may misperceive the danger as isolated to her, to her narrative, but as the tide rises— hashtag after hashtag erupting from the aether announces not simply, “I also have suffered molestation at a man’s vile hands,” but even more consequently: “I’ve suddenly realized we are in grave danger and that our men have demonstrated quite clearly: They are not up to the task of protecting us.” The signal of #metoo is not so simply an acknoledgement of abuse; it is the revelation each Mother is experiencing as such in isolate turn that, accumulated as human wave, signals the existential terror of the larger female half of the human macro-organism’s constituent population scenting a far greater danger on the wind, waiting just ‘round the next bend. 

And where are we, gentlemen? Juvenilized, weak, perverted, and petty: we play video games, get fucked up, and fight the difficult and unrewarding but necessary mantel of manhood tooth and nail. Gentleman, I say unto you now: Your ladies are right: we have failed them, one and all. 

You cannot be counted on to win the day, let alone carry your treasures through the dark of this long, evil night that descends up on us now. And you offer no compass nor map out of this cave. They are correct in waking to discover your idiocy and losing their faith in you.

The danger looming is one we continue to permit ourselves to be blind to; more than that, lady or guy, kid or adult, we reward and congratulate ourselves for training ourselves to ignore it. 

Permit me to illustrate the danger to you