Crocodile Gena's Birthday Song

I have been having a deep think, precipitated by a bout of exhaustion from the futility of trying to follow counter-propaganda, wondering if every last thing is part of some OP or other. It became necessary to strip away entire branches of my thinking, to refuse to “report,” unless I could be sure I wasn’t clouding the waters with either doom, anxiety, indignation or any of the other hazards of alternative media. I made myself wait, and say nothing. I’m working on de-encrypting events in France, Belgium, Sweden, etc, but as yet I don’t understand what is actually going on, or why. To speak of “Muslims” being or doing this or that is most definitely part of the trap, and I’m close to figuring out how not to fall into that trap. First I have to understand the basic history of Granada—a project I began last summer. I aim to become the slowest commentator on Substack. Speed has been our undoing. Slowness is the answer.

Those who have torched parts of France, burned down buildings, and even libraries, set loose zoo animals, including lions and elephants—how were they given orders? By whom? What was their driving resentment? Was it really the incident in the bus lane that left a 17 year old boy dead? Had this kind of thing happened before? There is virtually no reporting, but I’m finding small bits and fragments on Swedish state radio, that I can make sense of eventually. For now, it’s all some kind of surrealist dystopia, with only a few options for those who wish to understand “what’s going on.”

Something occasionally makes me look at Soviet TV from the 1970s an 80s, for clues. Maybe not clues about France, now, but clues about something yet to be defined.

I see something absolutely masterful in the artistry here.

I’m withdrawing from trauma content more and more, and choosing random “places” to hide in. Doug’s father’s collected writings of Luther, or road map from the 60s.

I’m a hoarder of clues, for a vast mystery and puzzle I know I will never solve.