Those Restless Niñitos

Those Restless NiñitosStuka1

If I Should Die Before I Wake

Now I lay me down to sleep

I pray the Lord my soul to keep;

If I should die before I wake

I pray the Lord my soul to take.

What happens to the soul, when a sleeping child is blasted away by a bomb and never wakes up? And what happens to the children who do survive, but whose hearts shall be forever scarred by memories so horrid that they need to take a pill in order to get any sleep?

Growing Up with Atrocity

We can be sure that those restless Niñitos shall prod us in the conscience with hot needles. The men are all fighting for causes the children cannot understand. There is a scandal every day, and by no means was every atrocity committed by the Gentlemen From The Other Side.

Now I lay me down to sleep

I pray the Lord my soul to keep

If I should die before I wake ….

So long as we allow our vision to be hypnotized by that long train of leaders, each pointing the finger at one or two others, we shall be able to ignore the fact that we are in a zoo, and the animals are not properly caged. If we listen to the niñitos, we shall be able to look down on this sick game from a higher perspective. We see then a circus of lions and tigers, wolves, and trained bears, moving political levers which result in disastrous encounters on the international scene.

It seems it is only the children who really want peace in the world. What are we to say to little girls in Third World countries? Mr. Pope, Mr. President, Mr. Chairman of the IMF, what can you say to the little girl who is praying that if a bomb falls on her house before she wakes up in the morning, the Angels will carry her off to paradise?

The Voice that Should Bother

Now I lay me down to sleep

Artillery shells are falling

And I hear the sirens of a jeep

What can we do for this poor girl? To begin with, we could allow her to become the Voice that bothers the President. Because she has said so many desperate prayers, this girl will grow up with a conscience. It shall be a dissident conscience, because all those prayers will have gotten her in touch with those same angels whom the warlords of this world wish to exorcise.

How many pieces of silver were the leaders paid when they sold out?

What can we do for this poor girl? Well, to begin with, we can set up shrines which shall become sanctuaries for the Dissident Conscience. Because she has said so many prayers, this little girl is going to grow up with a relation to the Wise Lord who commands all of the Amesha Spentas. She shall have a particular relation to She whom Zardosht named “Aramaiti,” but whose name may be translated as “Conscience.”

If she survives in this world, her prayers shall have gotten her in touch with Intelligences of the Wise Lord’s realm, who have counted the pieces of silver which disappeared from the Temple treasury, each time some great religious leader has sold out to the Other Side.

There may be nothing we can do for this little girl today, because she is a hostage, and careless intervention might just make the situation worse. But we can begin to create a path, so that if she survives she shall be enabled to present her testimony to the Assembled Nations of The World

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Do We Want Grandma to Smile?

This little girl must speak, but we may be sure that all of the Wolves & Wolverines of the various Orthodoxies will insist on keeping her quiet, because they all have their secrets where the rights of children are concerned.

What shall the Wise Lord have to say, concerning the eternal fate of those who have battened and fattened on the interests of loans which paid for the killing of these niñitos who stand just on the other side of the veil? Their minds are still childish, but the wrongs the world has inflicted on them have transformed them into afreet, powerful souls who strike terror in the hearts of men and djinn alike.

The little girl must speak, because it is only after we have begun to focus on the right of small children to grow up with freedom and dignity, that we shall be forgiven by all of the ghosts of all of the children whom our jihads and crusades have killed.

I pray for the Angels my soul to keep;

If I should die before I wake

I Pray To The Lady of Heaven

My soul to take

It’s only when we create sanctuary for the Dissident Conscience, that Grandmother shall smile upon us. There is plenty for everyone to atone for, on account of the violence which the leaders of the Race of Cain have inflicted on the hunter-gatherers. You cannot bring back those who were killed at Wounded Knee, but you can atone by allowing this land that we share to provide sanctuary for people who are different than you are.

And don’t let them clear-channel religion. Yes, God speaks to our souls, but every soul responds to a different wavelength. That’s why organized religion will never be so important as that Shrine to the Dissident Conscience which shines as a holy chapel within the Wilderness. It’s the ones who never quite become good True-Believers who try to keep the machines from eating the people.

 A couple of years ago, in Gaza, a bulldozer went on a rampage and devoured a girl. Now, everywhere, the machines are on a rampage. No one wants to talk about it, but those who are back from Iraq have seen that the machines are out of control and on the loose, and that they are devouring whole villages.

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And the Elders Go Shaking their Heads

Happy Cinco de Mayo.

And the Elders Go Shaking their Heads.

 

 

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And the Elders Go Shaking their Heads

Writing in the Sky

In the kivas in the desert, as in the deep jungles far to the South, the elders shake their heads. They see the writing that’s inscribed in trails that are left by jet planes that are larger than a 40 paddle canoe. They see from the morals of the people, as well as from the policies of the public administrators in high office, that the time of the Stick Men has come once again. Once more, their hearts and their brains have turned to wood that is incapable of feeling. Once more, they have forgotten everything that the Creator told them.

 

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Return From A World Without Sun

Tree of Peace

The shaman throws tobacco on the fire;
We pray to you, four elements, Great Father and Great Mother,
Protect us from the wrath of worldly forces.
 

          The ultimate base of any survivors group lies in the vibrancy of its story.
“Story is the gift of The Raven,” Nancy explains to us. “According to the tribes of the West, there was a time when everything was so dense and overcast, that there was no sun at all. Raven discovered that the sun had been hidden in a box by a wicked sorcerer, and by a clever stratagem was able to steal it and return it to the heavens. But the fire scorched him, so that his feathers are black to this day.

“Each survivor has made the journey of The Raven. In each case, it is a different sorcerer who has stolen the sun. In some cases it has been alcohol or drugs. In some cases it has been war, or torture, or rape. Each of us knows what it is to live in a world in which there is no sun. And each of us has had to learn how to change shapes in order to trick the Evil Spirit that had stolen our sun, so that the sun could be returned to the sky.

“Like the Raven, our own hides have been blackened, and our feathers have been scorched. In order to remind us that even in our heroic moments we are fallible, the Creator has given to each one of us some fundamental flaw of character, which we can only overcome as we develop relations of mutual respect with our fellows.”

We tell our stories, and it becomes a communion of faith.

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The Dance of Our Cultural Rebirth

Cinco de Mayo

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Today, we celebrate past struggles which redeemed us – for a while – from the curse of the Crude Oil Brothers.

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    • Now once again, as in the days of John Brown and Benito Juarez , we find ourselves caught up in a desperate struggle to redeem ourselves from the fictitious indebtedness imposed by the usuries and the sorceries of the Crude Oil Brothers.
      • As we approach the end of a long evolutionary cycle, it seems that all the great heroic struggles have been hopelessly betrayed. The struggles of the past delayed the final triumph of darkness, but only for a little while.
      • Imprisoned as we now are within the Shadow Land, we wait for Liberation. But how shall we ever be able to move in the darkness, unless we allow Ms. Sphinx, who knows the unconscious currents of the Earth, to guide us?
      • The darkness deludes us. If we are already in Hell, how can there any longer be such a thing as moral choice?
      • This is the logic of what trauma therapists call “Survival Mode.” The Circle which protects our sense of free will has been broken, and the Mind Police have taken over the control room. Liberation from this tyranny only comes, when will asserts its commitment to a moral value by changing the frequency.

When all our choices boil down to “To Be or Not To Be?”  – that is the definition of Survival Mode.

Paradoxically, we only escape from this Survival Mode  when we honour Being by giving it a value that justifies taking the risk of encounter with “Not- Being.”

Part of the delusion of the Ninth Hell is that one is alone. In reality, the suicide that is being contemplated is on the collective level. If one accepts one’s own execution, then one also accepts the execution of others who arrive in the same predicament.

Therefore, our Humanity can only survive, after the “one” has made a comittment to the collective by wilfully remaining in this world for long enough to put up a fight.

Therefore the reason, why the Native honors his ancestors with a dance. He knows quite well, so long as he covets the Christian Torturer’s fashions, he’ll never have a ground on which to stand.

The Native knows, it’s only when he dances, that the Vision of the Sphinx can return to this world. In the light of the Vision of the Sphinx, our dreams are no longer discordant, since her polarity has cast a magnetic field over the pan-psyche. It has been called the music of the spheres, but the melody comes as we allow the Sphinx to conduct us in symphonic harmony with the rest of the orchestra.

The Native knows that a Culture is a frequency that one can tune in to. For the Natives these frequencies are established by the drumbeats of the Circle of the Elders. Other cultures may have other rituals, but the essence of the culture is that it teaches us what we need to know in order to survive as morally conscious humans.

The Native also knows that all of these cultural wampum-belts arose from a word that was spoken by the Maiden of Heaven. This is why the essence of a culture can never be fully known, save through the experience of those who are immersed in it.

The dancing Native is like the crow who flies. He has been disciplined through a historical trauma which flogs him whenever The Sphinx is pleased to hear him howl. It is his struggle to learn to love the same Sphinx who devours him, which causes Amaterasu to look in curiosity from her dark cave, so that the Light can shine on earth again.

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Return, then, to the Dancing Ground in the Queen’s Dominion: 

    • Dance down the demons, expose the disinformation that allows Satan to claim Personhood. Expose the Primeval Corporate Merger, when all the malice on the Earth was consolidated into one account. It is into this Black Hole that everything financed by Usury must eventually flow. Dance until it is acknowledged that those who were shot down at Wounded Knee have been compensated with great powers over   Dark Matter.
    • When We dance, the Transformer is able to spread his wings. As the Plumed Serpent rises, the Way of the Light is made clear. What was beneath the earth is now made manifest. The Plumed Serpent of the sky and the Sphinx who is of the deep Underground make love, and the earth is renewed.
      • Dance down the demons, expose the disinformation that allows Satan to claim Personhood. Expose the Primeval Corporate Merger, when all the malice on the Earth was consolidated into one account. It is into this Black Hole that everything financed by Usury must eventually flow. Dance until it is acknowledged that those who were shot down at Wounded Knee have been compensated with great powers over   Dark Matter.
      • When We dance, the Transformer is able to spread his wings. As the Plumed Serpent rises, the Way of the Light is made clear. What was beneath the earth is now made manifest. The Plumed Serpent of the sky and the Sphinx who is of the deep Underground make love, and the earth is renewed.

Return, then, to the Dancing Ground in the Queen’s Dominion:

end wing

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Prolegomena to the Study of Economics as Demonology

Myra Belle Shirley

6th form

The Carthaginian Female Academy

  • If evil is the absence of good, then a scientific demonology would equate to a study of those factors which place a limit on conscience and consciousness. Thus stated, it becomes evident that demonology and economics are one and the same science.
  • We may represent the axis of creative movement, as rising in a perpendicular direction from the plane dominated by the limiting factors. As no vector of mortal consciousness is able to rise at the absolutely creative angle, these limiting factors play a significant role in the development of creative expression.
  • Karl Marx views with some contempt the notion that the Middle Ages were governed by religion rather than by economics. In actuality, a genuine and pervasive religious consciousness will create an economic system which we may call Shamanic, since market forces are directed by consideration of the organic needs of the ecosystem. All other types of economies are dominated by interests of a single class, or by a coalition of class interests representing only a segment of the actual population.
  • With the petrification and stratification of religion, the shamanic element loses its influence. We have observed in history the fall of Hephaestos. Merlin, who originally directed the Round Table, was first forced into monastic robes, and later became a mere court jester to William the Conqueror. Subsequently he became apprenticed to design flags for the merchant adventurers. In the last century he found himself condemned to share the poverty of the factory worker, and reduced to painting posters which would encourage the proletarian uprising.
  • In the course of this fall, societies have learned much concerning technology and science. But when we examine this science, we find a residue of the same misconception which caused the Shamanic element to become imprisoned in materialism.
  • Hasn’t the time come to assert that Maxwell (the physicist) has his demons and his angels turned around? We have seen the work of entropy; in nature, as in history, it tends to limit the scope of the creative play. That force which imprisons Merlin, which finally limits creativity to a single act of sacrificial rebellion against the factory system, certainly deserves to be identified with the Satanic Crew.
  • Now when we examine the so-called “Maxwell’s Demon”, we find an allegedly hypothetical force which, insofar as it reverses entropy,1 must be expressing some degree of creative intentionality. Calling this force a demon is really on a par with the popular superstition which believes great works of art can be inspired by insanity, devils, or both.
  • We find to the contrary, that human creativity, which exists potentially in every one of us, is the human response to promptings of the holy spirit. To the extent that we allow this angel-force to activate, we become centers of an uprising which drives back the limits of the economic environment.
  • This, then, is the essence of our revolution, the guiding light which determines our bandit strategy. We reject the puritanicality of inquisitions, accepting only that ironic humor which reminds us of our need to maintain humility in regard to our creative source.  
  • 1 for instance, by causing a pool of cold atoms to be concentrated on one side of a line, and hot atoms on the other. The effects of entropy would cause the cold and the hot to become mixed.

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The Who?

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Up there on the hill overlooking the city, the Sphinx is beginning to waken.
Everyone wants to deny it, but the sad truth is, that in our adaptation to what is called ‘Reality,’ we have become accomplices in enabling  society to become, in effect, a veritable syndicate that operates on a wave-length of raw abuse.

The prosperity of the Abusers has deceived and seduced even the elect. Maybe we have had to make these deals in order to shield our loved ones from terrible retaliation. Unfortunately, we know all too well, that the Sphinx shall only chew on our excuses.

The Sphinx awakens, as the setting sun proceeds to bleed on California and the whole Pacific Ocean. She lifts up her paw, because a mighty cry of outrage awakens her heart. She has perceived, that the exalted personages who share in the prosperity of the Abusers, are a different people from her own.

The Sphinx has been awakened by the anguished cries of those who are her people. Those cries inform her of the horrid pain that can afflict the limbs & members of the human anatomy. In her throat, the screams of a million women are joined to become the roar of a lion.

She sees her people bleeding in the gutters. She sees the soldiers going from house to house, because proud and arrogant leaders have discovered a new game to play. She watches as her people wither and die from treatable diseases. She watches while religious pomposities condemn the witch, and then commit crimes that witches would never
contemplate.

She hears how the Voice of the Accuser beams out with supposed authority
from the holy places. She contemplates a world which writhes in the
grip of proud men, who care not at all for the soul, because they
place their faith in guns and money.


When the Sphinx hears the people cry in this way, she stalks through the grass like a lion until she can find healers.


There once was a small African prince who was loved by his father and hated by his aunt. When his father died, the aunt would have killed the prince, save that the Sphinx sheltered him. The Sphinx taught him the medicine of the Rimbaud, who’d come to Ethiopia to seek the noble savage.

 

 

There was in the same day a gangster in Italy, who loved modern art only when he could exploit it. In truth, he believed with the Caesars, that civilization and all of its arts were founded on the efficient use of brute force.


Mussolini was riding on a tank. The Emperor Ras Tafari rode on the back of the
Sphinx.


In the East African mountains where they met, there still is desolation.


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