Monday, 21 March 2016

Guardians Of Rotting Cauliflower

Maybe it's all the thumb-fucking of cell phones being the cause, but I tend to expect less spelling and grammatical errors out of somewhat major publications than this article contains. It's not an isolated incident as I have been seeing a lot of this lately. Maybe there are no real editors left in that job market, or maybe they've all been replaced by newer, younger personas who've been trained in common-core educational meat grinders that won't correct things so as not to 'hurt feelings'... Yet leads to exactly this death of the language. I've probably railed against this'd before, I'll likely rail against it again. It also leads to a whole lot of other stupid, too.

Fuck it. Fuck it a lot...

There was a big sale on mouldy rotting cauliflower at the grocery store the other day. I looked at the calendar expecting April fools, but it wasn't April yet. Then there was the Brussels airport bombing and suddenly there are security guards posted at the same grocery store... Guarding mouldy cauliflower, I presume. Funnier still they were paged twice while I shopped for twelve items, strangely, they were all out of cauliflower. 

I've been catching some very strange juju lately. Recurrence of numbers, people thinking I'm someone else, odd conversations with complete strangers, seemingly supernatural sunrises and sunsets.

I've been actively avoiding media and news of any kind outside of a few choice blogs for months, yet somehow things I need to know find me either via grapevine, or random happenstance like the radio of a passing car. Maybe I miss out on the undertones buried in the din of background noise meant to trigger emotional response in this manner, and maybe it's promulgated so far that coincidence is closer to persistence. I can't say for certain without jumping back into the fray and metring it for myself, but I still seem to know more about whatever's going on in Trump Towers than a non-American should ever need to. My opinion of candidates running for president does not change my inability to cast a vote, which, I likely wouldn't anyway. 

It beggars the imagination that news is presented by a minority who is known for manipulating history by inserting whichever lies were the most convenient at the time.

This post is everywhere... Probably best to end it.


Friday, 11 March 2016

Weapons Of Mass Distraction

Let's get the obvious out of the way. I've been gone for a while. There is no reason for this other than having had nothing to say... Nothing has changed, I've not been arrested, killed, nor put on prescription medication to overcome the 'paranoid delusion' of some international conspiracy to steal the world and mortgage it back to us at subprime rates with no money down... There has simply been a stagnation in the acceleration of visible signs relevant to that end.

I know that, to an extent, we are waiting for them to play their Trump card, and no, creativity has never been their strong suit. But, then, have you ever met a bean counter? Most are bean counters because they realise they lack imagination early on. I've never met an accountant moonlighting in a garage band (weekend rebel cover-band, yes, original songs no) or painting the Mona Lisa on the weekend. And economists are simply accountants who don't know how not to fudge the numbers and could not be trusted with check signing responsibilities. 

Still, I feel it worth mentioning that I still feel something is on the verge. I don't know what it is. There is no ominous feeling associated with it, no anticipation, no restlessness, no dreams or nightmares, yet it's there. Shapeless and without name, and with nary a whisper in the winds.

Maybe I simply do not understand what's coming enough for it to cast a shadow, and maybe I'm not meant to survive it, so, it remains a distant unrecognised visage I couldn't pick out of a police lineup. I simply don't have enough data to fill in the blanks and chart the possible outcomes to any degree of accuracy better than throwing darts blindfolded. Yet, it still feels close enough to be injured during the act of throwing darts blindfolded. 

I didn't say I planned to make a whole lot of sense today. Did I? Because it doesn't make much sense to me either.

It is always possible that whatever approaches won't affect me in any direct manor, hence the lack of dread I'd normally feel.

It is also possible that I am feeling the echo of an increasing number of souls coming down from the acid trip of this reality generated to mask the true intentions of those manipulating it towards their own agenda. I hear more and more of that in the murmur of crowds of strangers, and I see it behind the eyes of the silent. More and more, it seems, people are pulling at the loose threads in the tapestry, and having traveled that path already, I know it all ends up the same ball of twine no longer covering the window to reality. People are willfully unplugging, and defiantly questioning the paradigm set forth by weapons of mass distraction.