Reflections On The Very Strange Dream We Are All Having, Reality Not Feeling Real

And Deferring To Elizabeth Nickson, Who Fulfills The Duty Of The Writer, To Render Back Dignity, And Claim Victory

“I got a feeling inside. I can’t explain.”

—Pete Townshend

I wrote this yesterday but didn't post it and today was derailed, computer cable issues and various thwartings.

I was trying to address the events and aftermath of Nov 5.

I had way too much in my mind to make heads or tails of it.

The events are too big, and the reactions, paranoias, PSY OPS, grievances are all meshing into an incoherent field of static.

I don’t make a sound sometimes, when huge things happen. I’m even afraid to type the word “good.”

But writers should paint the good— declare the redeemed world by writing it into being.

I favor, hugely, the triumphant interpretations of my essential kind of people, (who fight the death cult,) but I am exhausted from so many years of trying to decode these (woke Bolshevik) people, and even more exhausted from always underestimating their staying power, tenacity, and zombie like apparent immortality.

I looked down at Alexander, (who sleeps like this) and felt he embodied my own mood.

I want to be bullish but I feel… disoriented.

Ambivalent, when the feeling ought to be gratitude.

I am, officially, grateful for many things.

But the other side is this: If we feel we are out of the woods, because “Trump Will Fix It” we are grossly underestimating The Anaconda, which transcends, usurps, and strangles anything “good” that happens. That’s the essential nature of The Anaconda. It likes nothing good and loves everything horrid.

I don’t want to listen to apprehensions, right now, about the new Trump Freedom Team, but I do listen, have listened, with one ear— and it always leads to interprtetational and spiritual paralysis.

One can only say: “Oh, I don’t know what’s going on.”

It’s possible nobody alive does know.

I’m nervous about 2028, already!

About the backlash, the radical measures they will resort to to punish us forever.

But that’s not it. I don’t quite know what “it” is. This “feeling inside.”

Profound unease—

I think, since 20202, my nerves just do not register “the good” anymore. Shock and trauma will do that to people.

Covid was a decimating, shattering, nervous system ending event—let’s face it. We had every notion of life, liberty, government, rights shattered, and even when, especially when, the mRNA killings got underway—we were shown the faceless face of a mother (media) who mocked our every grief response, locked the basement door, taught us what real mercilessness looks like. A void, a total void, of everything human, from one day to the next.

We were expected to love being murdered. And thank her.

The Real Anthony Fauci was the only consolation. It was all true, but mother never responded. She did not have to.

We never had a mother, we never had “rights,” and everything to the contrary had been an illusion.

Trump still doesn’t seem to register that it even happened.

Will he, one day? Is it just too mortifying and impossible? In that case, we can look forward to a reality that has no reality in it.

Grim.

Brutal.

The Half-Finished Heaven: Just a few of the good things…

Suddenly—sanity, liberty, and redemption are abounding in the milky death valley, now being sold to us as a crime scene that is becoming “great” again. But without any remorse, only booming promises.

And I have to believe these promises, until I am given clear reason not to. Isn’t that the least we can do?

Joel Salatin is going to fix our farmlands, with his genuinely genius methods of regenerative farming, Bobby Kennedy is going to smash up the most evil public health agencies in the world, and bring back the spirit of the American transcendentalists, Trump is going to cripple the academic censorship industrial complex…(the list of potentially miraculous developments will be addressed in a a future post.)

So many things I have desperately fought for are coming up like sunflowers—so why can’t I, we, be happy for five minutes?

I think it has to do with the elusive and complex nature of happiness.

I think it’s because they genuinely broke our souls, and now all we have is an engineering project we struggle to feel happy about. And then we feel guilty about that ambiguity. And then we pitch in optimism, that’s hard to feel.

Why is it hard to feel?

Moral failing?

Humpty Dumpty understands.

Optimism is a moral obligation, now more than ever.

Let’s Be Happy: The Brats Are Unhappy

I have certainly felt joy that ghastly narcissistic bullies have had the rug pulled out from under them.

But I know, in my bones, that because they are the Designated Brats Of The World—it will be the sane, good people who will have hell to pay, especially if things get demonstrably better. And I think that’s what is interfering with my hopefulness.

The Designated Brats Of The World never have to take no for an answer. And never have to experience chronic, or any other kind, of unemployment. Of erasure and pariah hood.

It’s only a matter of how, exactly, and when, exactly, innocent people will be severely punished when The Designated Brats are deprived of exactly what they want.

This is all we know for sure.

Still—let’s stay in the reverie mode for a bit.

I believe we owe it to one another to be optimistic, realistic, and confident. Not to over-indulge in our private collections of distrust in various figures. That’s infantile.

Fight! Fight! Fight!

But can The Anaconda be defeated? It’s a spirit of accusation without end.

Kafka saw it all. (Bureaucracy.)

About him, nobody could ever say: “Do not trust.”

That’s the thing about literature—you can trust it. For this reason, I think we should turn to it for any answers we could ever wish to find. Alternative media will always—well, mostly— keep you chasing down facts not bound together with any real story telling.

I should have written you when I was kind of “happy,” a few days ago, but I was too overwhelmed with input and could not compose anything.

I keep calling friends and asking why we weren’t “celebrating?” Sort of guilt-tripping them.

And it’s not the Elon thing, the unknown, the who are they really? paranoia, (or maybe I should say “skepticism.”)

I suppose I am aware of a troubling absence of “happiness,” in the following sense:

Trump derangement syndrome is a permanent demonic presence they (social engineers) have installed in the very bones of our reality.

Many feel a cloud has lifted—I feel a darker than ever cloud is approaching also. (In response/retaliation.)

For everybody who may feel elated that Trump won, somebody else lost their daughter, or son.

I would be “happy” if the social engineering of this rabid, irrational hatred would be swept away. But as we might have predicted, it has instead mutated into more malignant forms, than even previous incarnations:

It’s sad and by no means trivial.

The story above may or may not be accurate. Truth is, we can’t ever know whether any news story is true. This is why I think literature should make a comeback. And I’m not well read or anything, I’m just desperate.

In a corner table at a local kebab place in Plaza Nueva I can be found sometimes around midnight, reading Don Quixote, Edith Grossman’s translation, and laughing out loud. This feels like happiness. I even ate pizza and didn't care, because I was so happy.

Cervantes gave us the antidote to woke, in 1605. The antidote to woke is him. (Quixote.)

He turned everything into wonder. He saw prostitutes and declared them princesses.

I think we should aspire to be more like him—and to hell with “truth.” It’s over rated.

A friend texted in a group chat:

”Sadly, my own daughter won’t talk to us because we voted for Trump. The mass psychosis is horrible. It’s ruining happy families like mine.”

You can marvel at the blood curdling narcissism of woke anti-Trump people but it won’t ever feel like reversal and recognition.

We’re stuck in a tragedy without an arc. Just people being miserable as if being paid by the hour, handsomely. And maybe they are.

“Stop letting them observe your face.” (A must watch)

She looks like Rachel Maddow, (who Alex Jones calls “he.”)

FEMA really did this:

The jet-black Ahrimanic/demonic social engineering that went into AIDS-Climate Change-PC-Woke-LGBTQ-Covid etc over decades, mutates explosively every time Trump “wins” anything, and yes, one can "ignore it,” but you know it will never be set straight.

I fear it is a permanent distortion—truth and beauty as a corpse with a slit throat on the floor before you at all times, where once one can remember most people being mostly sane.

The corpse won’t move, it represents that which was killed, not that which can recover.

You’ll never get your “friends” or memories or “life” back. Your “goodness,” as Elizabeth put it, in The Crucible.

You (many of you reading this) will have lived like prisoners, grateful for crumbs of acceptance, for a very long time. You don’t know what being a respected, valued member of “society” feels like—that all went—long ago— to the brats, the pods, the hipsters, the lefties and of course, the foaming-ly despising Trump crowd. They can get any job they want. They can post a photo of a baked pear on Facebook and hundreds of people will express adoration, approval, emotional support, and delight. They’re people.

Does anybody know what I mean?

Please don’t scold me for being of poor attitude. I am trying really hard, and this is just a first draft.

Elizabeth Nickson: “We have no idea how much trading with this malignant force has cost us in terms of life lost.”

Let’s cut to one of our favorite writers who is not having this melancholia-despite-success that I’m having right now, but is able to experience a moment of brilliantly expressed inner liberty from our oppressors.

Here’s Elizabeth Nickson’s majestic articulation of the case for immense relief and hope:

Read the rest here.