I went to bed late, because I’d gotten a long nap earlier, and half jubilant (texting with Nick) and half upset (watching riot videos), so I laid here jangled but happy, worried but content, for longer than I meant to. Then I had some disturbing dreams, which I’m tempted to allow to evaporate completely this morning (morning being the arbitrary middle-of-the-night time when I turn on the generator and lights). But I value dreams when I remember them, so here it was.
IRL, my friend Shay is coming here on Monday to join us at this fire as an additional and/or replacement CDL driver, and she’s a tall gorgeous black gal a few years older than me, and with a lot of personal charisma and magnetism. She definitely would not want to find herself involved in my unusually bad dream, and I don’t know why this happened; it’s not like we’re that close. Anyway, in the dream, I was at a house that was apparently hers, but it was quite lux; almost a mansion. Things were fine but then a fear manifested into a person, and he was a short, stocky, white man with a fairly heavy five o’clock shadow and no emotions on his face besides this avid intensity. He arose out of some story we were telling, or worry we were indulging?, don’t remember, and then he was attacking us and he just had the advantage right from the beginning. Soon he was choking her with his right hand and holding me away with his left, and of course because it was a dream I was feeble and couldn’t organize myself to oppose his energy. But I could hear her gasping and running out of air, and time, and I just couldn’t seem to throw off the deadening effect of his grip on me (which was REM sleep, in reality), and I was very upset.
I was so upset I woke up and laid there for a bit in the dark. But then I heard a sound and it was this same fuckin guy, not handsome at all but powerful, this time for reals, coming from the darkness to my left with his avid expression and reaching out to choke me. I felt the pressure around my throat and I tried to scream but it was choked off, and then — oh hey, it was actually a little upset mumble, because now I was really waking up, and of course no one was there, and there was just a fold of the blanket across my throat. I was honestly surprised to wake up and nothing bad was happening.
So I’ve had nightmares before but I don’t think I’ve had a fake out like that. Yay, nightmare is over! Surprise, it’s still going! And I’m not happy Shay was involved in it. She strikes me as superstitious enough that I should just never never mention it.
Dreams are our mind talking to itself in symbols, though, and realistically each character in the dream represented an aspect of me, interacting with itself. Or that’s one theory. My brother is good at this, I’m not. Why did a part of myself need to be going around choking everyone? Ugh, I’m no good at this. Abe, when you read this, will you just comment what it means lmao.
Also I just doubt I would have had the nightmare had I not been drawn into the riot videos with my nighttime mind. I almost got myself set up to just not sleep, and write a blog instead, because I was laying here feeling so jangled I doubted I’d sleep at all.
For posterity’s sake, the Louisville AG announced their findings on the Breonna Tayler case day before yesterday, with one cop of 3 found guilty of endangering neighbors. Not the public executions the mob was hoping for. Of course the rioters have congregated there, but become vicariously revivified elsewhere, because it’s a big stupid zombie movie in real life, where they all share one…not mind per se, but like…primordial influence. They’re mostly nocturnal, of course, but it’s as if someone somewhere broadcasts a certain frequency that causes them all to become ambulatory and start shuffling around, holding their phones up to film themselves attacking things in disturbingly animalistic ways, especially things that move purposefully or oppose absorption. They chant their sing-song slogans, as if their brains are literally mush, and they have that quintessential zombie knack of being highly ineffective at everything but somehow getting it done anyway, through sheer force of numbers and categorical unemployment — hacking out chunks of the road with pickaxes, tearing things down, cutting a swath through whatever neighborhood unfortunate enough to find itself infested with them. They favor urban settings, so there’s lots of rooftop footage of them, swarming the streets in totally unconscious dispersal patterns that act like molecules in a gas — spreading out to fill the confines of any area, but then tightening into whorls and eddies around objects and people they don’t like the smell of. There are some among them with more presence of mind, and these are the dangerous elements that accomplish the boxing-in, the prevention of escape of people the horde overtakes, while the horde itself idles forward like an abandoned lawnmower, low-key scything indiscriminately.
I’m filled with fear and disgust and loathing at the sight. Even upsetting scenes of violent revolution from other countries, other times, is characterized by purposeful men screaming in the streets, throwing objects with some degree of accuracy for fuck’s sake, feeling quite passionate in their visceral denial of whatever’s happening to them. These BLM hordes are somewhat less alarming (not a hair I want to split, really) in their slower, more swirling coagulations, truly like a sinister gas that erodes everything it touches, but hasn’t much agency per se. Yeah, that seems apt: a mindlessly but creeping malevolent fume. They derive negative emotional charges, like invisible explosions (amid the visible explosions) from entirely predictable outcomes like getting run over or punched through or arrested or opposed in any way. And everyone and everything is like sustenance or potential sustenance to them — they crave the pushback; not as individuals because they can’t compute what that should mean, but as a collective organism.
I feel any observation I could make about this is almost too hopelessly obvious to be worth writing down, but I can’t believe this is happening in my country. Bootstrap commentators are beginning to emerge, who narrate the blow-by-blow in ringing, ring-side terms; the self-styled ESPN anchors of the apocalypse. Meanwhile, an (actual) independent livestream journalist named, I think Jessica Hernandez?, was purposefully turned on and mobbed, last night, her phone knocked from her hand and surrounded by maybe a dozen, who punched her in the back of the head and swarmed over her, last night. She came home and made another livestream on her other phone, and invited us to regard her unscathed face — “Honestly I’m fine,” she said, and I paraphrase. “They don’t expect anyone to fight back. Their punches felt almost like marshmallows.” That’s partly Antifa’s well known predisposition to beta-male ineptitude, but likely involved her own adrenaline as well. “I fought back and they were honestly surprised. They have to learn that they can’t attack people and expect them not to fight back.”
Which represents the other half of the uber-disturbing equation, of course — cowed urban populations taking this shit in the first place. I don’t know what’s wrong with them, but something really big is wrong with them. Of course my personal perspective on the race riots — which obviously aren’t race riots at all but simply the variously-hued emission of noxious subhuman gases released in Democrat controlled cities all over America in slyly synchronized fashion — began with several close friends of mine closing ranks against me because I objected to a truck driver being pulled from his fuel tanker and beaten on a bridge, back in May. That made me racist, or not anti-racist, or tone deaf, or whatever. So I’m not even pointing my finger to populations of random strangers who don’t understand that bullies only speak one language, so you may as well start learning how to say hello in that language — I’m not pointing to the anonymous populations, I’m pointing to people I’ve known and loved for years, too. Something is wrong with you if you can’t see this for what it is.
Nick and I recalled, on the phone together last night, that school bullying was this whole thing, for years. Remember that? It’s been a good ten or fifteen years of everyone pissing their pants about school bullies, and what to do about them, and how to help them be better people, and making sure their targets at school understand that violence isn’t the answer, and policies where both kids will get expelled if the bullying escalates to violence (ie, the victim stood up for him/herself). And the online bullying — kids committing suicide over what’s happening on their social media accounts. Everyone fretting — the bullying has to stop.
I remember it all maybe extra well, because I narrated a frankly tragic book about it, which is available on Amazon and Audible and which I highly don’t recommend. I got paid $100/hr, and was unaware of how much it sucked when I entered into that agreement. I narrated the whole book in my closet, in Tucson, with this disgusted look on my face. I would just emerge from my closet sometimes and pet Buffy or make salads with this shell shocked expression that I could physically feel. Basically it was supposed to be a coming-of-age teen love story, with some didactic moralizing about bullying, but in reality it was an instruction manual on how to become an easily triggered and highly compromised snowflake of a person. When I finally finished the job I just closed my computer and vomited in my mouth a little bit. Sales haven’t been good, I’ll tell you that.
Anyway, relative to school bullying, everyone was acting like kids won’tbehave like animals when you lock them up in a fucking zoo eight hours a day — that was the first shake-my-head, about it. And then second, whether the circumstances that give rise to bullying are within our power to address or not, you’ve got one fucking option in that situation, as a kid. One. Exactly one. Become an unsafe choice. Bullies are nothing if not pragmatic. They’ll find someone else, so don’t be that someone else. Make it too much of a goddam ordeal for them.
So for me, any parent who doesn’t sit their kid down, collect the specifics of the situation, and then coach their child on exactly how to hit that kid right in the throat as hard as they can, is derelict in their duty. The parent should flesh out the consequences and ramifications of this choice but make it clear that this isn’t about school and it’s not about rules, it’s about jungle fucking law. Stand up for yourself and then stand up for the next kid too. And that the parent is gonna have their back 100%, and possibly go and hit a school administrator in their throat, as a second act. Okay, that’s a reach — adults have other resources of course, but kids don’t. They just don’t. They wouldn’t be in that situation to begin with, if they did.
And I’m pretty sure that’s exactly how it went down in many households, but unfortunately the tone of our national dialogue about bullying was the perfect, awful precursor to what we’re seeing now. The older people know better, but they’re frail and they need younger folks to stand with them. Most of the DIY rioter beat downs I’ve seen are literally being handed out by old men who understand, there’s a line in the sand and you can’t let people cross it without consequences. It makes me crazy that we’re still calling them “protestors”. Gaslighting to the moon. So there’s a point of recognizing the bully, and the bullying, for exactly what it is that is still eluding many people, somehow. That’s more frustrating than the bullying itself, almost.
So yes, it jangles my nerves quite a bit to see this playing out in the streets of MY country.
Another thing deeply shocked and disturbed me, yesterday mid-morning, and has been on my mind. I had run across this quote from a person who’d received one of the COVID vaccines in human trials: “They’ve killed God; I can’t feel God anymore — my soul is dead.” This is the second such “neurological effect” with this vaccine, halting the human trials for a second time (of course they’re underway again). And just for context, let me update you on new CDC numbers in case you’re unaware. Infection survival rates by age range:
Age 0-19: 99.997%
Age 20-49: 99.98%
Age 50-69: 99.5%
Age 70 & over: 94:6%
And 40% of all infections asymptomatic.
This is what we shit the bed for. Which anyone with the basic five senses operating could infer from the total lack of actually knowing anyone who had it or died from it. In a real viral pandemic, we would’t need the TV to tell us to be scared, because we’d have that covered of our own volition.
Anyway, this quote from a subject of the human trials disturbed me, and circuitously led me to discover an excerpt of a DoD briefing at the Pentagon in 2005, regarding proposed Operation: FunVax, a “cure” for religious fundamentalists. The asshole running the powerpoint explained to a roomful of other assholes that CT scans reveal the neurochemical MATV2 heightened in people who self-identity as “religious”; MATV2 is associated with desire and intention as well, according to this guy. The context seems to be a proposal to make it possible to neurologically lobotomize dangerous religious fundamentalists (read: Muslims) via the following maneuver: release an aerosolized respiratory virus most of us are immune to anyway, a flu or coronavirus, and then recommend a vaccine *which* strategically impairs or destroys MATV2. Which I’m assuming has to do with the pineal gland, the seat of human consciousness, the God molecule, but I haven’t had a chance to do much research around it yet.
So it’s a very frank, unselfconscious (ie light years from ethical considerations) presentation about literally weaponizing an otherwise unnecessary vaccine against a chemical our brain produces when we feel things in the religion department. I’m not making this up, although it sounds like it. Like I said, the presentation is from ’05, and here we are in 2020.
The connection between the clinical trial subject’s concerning reaction to the vaccine and the pineal gland lobotomy being casually discussed in the video are undeniable. That’s all I know about it right now, but that’s plenty.
So, it’s odd to go to bed so upset about so much, but also so happy about my own life and future — Nick is knocking down problems as fast as they stand up, in AZ and NM, as a precursor to our move, and is traveling to our house in Albuquerque with the bugaboos and his best friend to go do some serious man shit all day. Veterinary stuff is back on track, ish, with a built-in delay of a week due to convoluted problems with convoluted solutions. I actually got a raise yesterday, long story — and whatever else my dream symbolized, I think that emotional jangling had a lot to do with it. I continue to be grateful to have a blog practice right now, and even more grateful for blog readers; that’s a total miracle. And it sounds like some of the other contractors want to cook us breakfast and hang out this morning after the camp clears out, so me and Gene and maybe Julie from the handwash station will scamper over there in a bit, in the tractor, so I can pump off the water they need at the same time and knock out half my (extra, un-solicited) work today.
I haven’t been noticing the phases of the moon much, here, I realized, because it’s been too smoky to see what’s going on in the celestial department, but it was a bright half moon last night. By the time it’s a half moon again, I hope we’re on a plane.