20 Days Before Trump's Inauguration, Chaos Erupts: Morale Plummets, Fog Rolls In.

"These pricey deals don't teach us…your freedom doesn't reach us…enlightenment escapes us…awareness doesn't shape us."

6:40 am and this post has been in the making on and off for 14 hours. New Year’s is for metamorphosis, and renewal.

I had written a “hopeful” New Year’s post, and returned from New Year’s family party at 3 am to complete it—fell asleep 4:30 am. It didn’t get finished.

Today, New Year’s Day, it feels like I’m losing my battle with optimism, between the nano-fog attacks, the bird flu escalation, Covid 2.o in China, the New Orleans massacre, and the truck that exploded outside of the Trump hotel. MAGA has imploded into civil war, Trump has betrayed his entire base and movement, MAHA has mostly imploded—it’s all very depressing, though people are yet again “waking up.”

How hard exactly, were we all swindled, during this long and nauseating faux conservative era, this gold rush, set off in 2016, by Wikileaks?

Is every last one of them a fraud?

It might be time to abandon all or most interactions with any medium claiming to tell us what is “happening” and most members of the commentariat—and focus on practical matters like not being permeated by “self-assembling” nano-dust.

Maybe the good news is we leave the Godot waiting field, and de-program ourselves as people exiting all cults must do. There’s freedom in that. It’s also queasy.

(Violence Warning at end of video)

“Trust the plan,” is a phrase that should be banished, replaced with “trust your instincts.” (No, I did not ever “trust the plan” but I did lend myself to wanting to believe America was undergoing some kind of sanity revival.) I should have been way more vocal about my revulsion and distrust for slick swindlers like Vivek. I should have put on record that I think Elon is an extreme trauma victim, and survivor.

Half the famous conservative super stars were photographed at various times in bathtubs filled with blood, and the other half believe Gaza deserves to be a glassed parking lot, and routinely brandish Masonic hand signaling in countless photos, with smug grins.

Today, in an email group, I received this:

I watched it. The Hotez and Wen clips are especially traumatizing. It doesn’t feel like Robert F. Kennedy Jr. is about to take over HHS in a few weeks; It feels like Fauci, Hotez, Gates and Tedros are fire-bombing us straight through the windows-by no means weakened.

Maybe 20 days from now it will all stop, and this will all be but a bad dream. It doesn’t seem that way.

I’d like to hear something from Donald Trump.

People have been shelling out all kinds of money these past four years to listen to what I now call Freedom Charismatics sell us on them.

I don’t mean Bobby Kennedy—but I do mean hundreds of other MAGA, MAHA and “conservative” superstars who got very rich mostly saying things that were nice but didn’t reflect reality.

I’m not yet ready to declare the whole thing a vicious swindle but nor am I thrilled about how “far we’ve come” or how “awake” people are.

A lot of people were selling a product—”freedom,”—that they could not deliver. Instead they delivered the idea of it, not the reality. They delivered the sound of it. It all became a freedom tent, a freedom revival, a carnival of performances and cross-promotions, heroes and stars. Speakers, speakers, speakers.

Why so many speakers and so much audience to absorb all the speaking speakers?

Nobody, in these speeches, over these years, warned of this aerial nano-gas attack.

Or, for that matter, of Covid. Or Fauci. Or any of it.

[Well, Peter Duesberg did. Kary Mullis did. These people all did.]

Two people I have spoken to in New York in the last 24 hours, one being my sister, have strange, deep coughs—no fever. I’d love to ignore it, and rebuke “scaremongering,” but I can’t.

Reinette’s in depth, deeply disturbing video is here.

As I write this, and as you read it, something like 27 US states are reporting being assailed with a 3 day thick fog, making people sick, said to be a bio-chemical attack of nano-particles, possibly self assembling, or what Julian Assange, in 2018, called “…intelligent, evil dust.”

By the way, if a bomb falls on you, and you’re dying, please don’t forget that viruses do not exist.

Make sure this is your last thought. My sarcasm is hard earned on this one, since the 1990s, when I apparently failed to ask Stefan Lanka a question in Buenos Aires.

Thanks Kathy.

The non existence of viruses is so helpful when confronting toxic nano-fog going straight to your lungs.

And even if Ivermectin cures it, better to alert the lumpenproletariat on the internet that it’s a “poison,” that inhibits fertility in Africa.

Sarcasm aside, word is Ivermectin does relieve this chemical deep cough, but maybe that’s all just part of the Ivermectin “psy-op.”

Oregano oil also works—worked for my friend. And my sister got relief with Z-Stack.

I don’t like it when even Clif High gets hysterical.

As somebody pointed out, what good is MAHA’s promise to remove toxins from our food and water, when they've rolled out mass gassing by air? The phrase “…under the weather” has taken on new meaning:

Not sure about Baxter Dmitry.

Meanwhile, they’re not kidding about Bird Flu. And they’re bringing back “Covid,” with the help of course of America’s most miserable CFR-WEF propagandist, Laurie Garrett, who always likes to remind you she has won all three top journalism prizes: Pulitzer, Peabody and Polk.

This might be satire. But these days, it’s hard to say for sure.

But this is not:

Here is what I had written yesterday and early this morning—the piece I never finished:

I think what’s so interesting about 2024 is how we started seeing that the objects we were reaching for not as important as we could have sworn they were.

How we started to see through walls, without even trying. Nobody was everything— the big play was composed by everybody all at once—and nothing was what it seemed.

Hierarchies of knowingness lost their power to dominate, as people found their voices again, became equal keepers of the unfolding story, transcending shame and dissolving separation.

Four years in—we reclaimed hope in small ways.

It seemed for a time that bullying in the name of scientific exactingness would be exposed as the identical demon spirit behind Covid itself. But nobody wanted to address the painful subject of infiltration and subterfuge. Only when they all turned on each other were their victims able to say: “Told you so.”

And everybody was sick of the vicious fighting on what still got referred to as “our side.”

Hero worship, in 2024, was revealed as yet another trauma symptom, along with malignant scorn. Humor made its way back, at the edges, and music was re re-embraced like an old lost friend. We finally stopped taking ourselves so seriously, or at least I hope we did.

Bobby Kennedy, were he a Greek mythological figure, would be Atlas.

It would be the Atlas of Zbigniew Herbert’s rendering in The King Of The Ants. It’s impossible to download this book, and my copy is in New York, but from memory, Zbigniew’s Atlas was a lonely figure whose thankless eternal act was carrying the heavens. All he carries is only felt by him; Nobody can help him, nobody can know what he carries.

Kennedy rises higher and higher, bringing his mysteries and contradictions with him. In 2024, he rose above the clouds, to HHS director, as spiteful media toads fired more and more bizarre slanders at him—a dead bear, a decapitated whale, an unstable New York Magazine reporter dressed in leopard print, who lied to her editors. None of it took him down.

And for the murdered, maimed, and poisoned, there was no compassion nor relief. Those who lost their children to the Covid shots still had to endure living in an America where their agony was cast as nothing, compared to the perturbed sentiments of NYT reporters who found Bobby’s conduct with the bear, the whale, and the reporter weird.

Weird trumped murder, hands down. But Bobby was able to pilot his air balloon higher and higher by the power of his knowledge, intelligence, and curious indifference to their slings and arrows. The attackers seemed oblivious to the notion that his father and uncle might be guiding that balloon, despite the protestations of his mediocre siblings and family members, on system payroll. Their Robert F. Kennedy, or “Daddy,” was just a bronze statue. No matter how they rubbed it, it wouldn’t bring his ghost down to assist their pharmaceutical-industry protecting agendas.

You’d think one of these reporters would go pull out a copy of Hamlet, but no.

They can’t decide whether they want to destroy him or destroy him after they get a guided tour of Hyannis Port.

Herbert focused on the lonely tragedy of Atlas’ eternal carrying. The book is a masterpiece, from which I remember only one line, fully intact. I think it opens the book.

“It is difficult, truly, to be reconciled with sky high injustice.”

Bobby looks a little out of place in those striped arm chairs in Senators’ offices as they post, one by one, their appreciation of his ideas about un-poisoning of America, and what a great conversation they had. Really. His novel ideas, right? This far out guy.

Don’t poison Americans from cradle to grave?

They act like they’re being introduced to a concept that has never crossed their minds. But in the striped chairs they can bore him with stories about the time they met his father and what a great man he was. And Bobby endures. “Atlas” in Greek means “very enduring.”

Even Bob Gallo told Bobby how much he adored his father.

They all want to touch Camelot—before they return to selling the nation out to the poisoners.

We had grown so accustomed to the American Way: Poison as a way of life, a way of death, a way of conflating the two until the one appeared at the other. All overseen by an ashen faced Anthony Fauci, now hiding in his own driveway, literally, deserted by security guards, whose mothers he probably killed.

Elon Musk is just another MK trauma fossil, trying to go to Mars rather than think about his childhood in a blood-soaked South Africa. It’s very odd how Elon Musk is never placed in context:

“My brother’s face was unrecognizable.”

“Americans don’t understand that the rest of the world is not like America.”

—Kimbal Musk

Kamala Harris and Joe Biden, in 2024, agreed to play out their roles as uncontactable zombies, baying for the blood of Americans at the altar of a dying Moloch.

Nothing seemed like it could be happening for real, it was all so consistently unreal. America is so not becoming “great.”

It is only becoming more and more unreal, by the hour.