Breaking news–The ocean currents off Maralago’s splendid shore are treacherous in their circuitously dissembling convolutions.
1. The first panel shows ocean currents sweeping along Florida’s eastern shore.
2. The Prime Minister of Japan arrives by limo and sits down to a sumptuous feast.
3-4. The exotic guests drink from the sacred vessels.
5. The Japanese PM gazes upon the splendors of Mar a lago.
6. Belshazzar beholds a cryptic Cypher writ large upon the wall. What does it mean?
In the tradition, this unitary awareness is the beginning of the great work. But in Evola’s dark, elitist, and apocalyptic elaboration, this work is a cyclic process that, after ages of decline brought about by egalitarianism, multi-culturalism, and democratic “leveling,” heralds the triumphant return of the golden age. He views history as a cycle of degeneration and regeneration which turns in a series toward its ultimate realization in the re-establishment of a hyper-masculine, solar king which dawns only after violent revolution upsets the status quo. The losers swept up in this upheaval are expendable, and quaint notions like charity, love, and compassion are jettisoned for the profits of a corporate elite. Evola may have attained some degree of genuine insight into the spiritual truth expressed by the Orobouros, as well as to how that essential unity is not obstructed by its infinite manifestations (dharmas) in the field of space and time. Evola studied the Pali cannon of the Hinayana (lesser vehicle) Buddhism, which focuses on self liberation from the cycles of existence (Samsara.) In contrast, the Mahayana (greater vehicle) stressed the cultivation of loving kindness as not only ethical, but the means by which we awaken to the ultimate truth of essential unity even while working to aleviate suffering in the relative world of Samsara.
As long as we have not realized that the mode of being of our mind resides in the union of relative truth and absolute truth—a realization that corresponds to awakening—these two truths are seen as separate instead of being seen in their original unity.
I reminded of the ancient, Chinese art of Feng Shui where, through practical as well as highly esoteric remedies, the built environment was altered in ways auspicious to health and prosperity. Mirrors were mounted on home fronts to counter the negative chi of neighbors. The neighbor then responded in kind, but with a larger mirror, and it soon escalated into all out, speculum warfare. I see something similar in the endless projections that one side of the political spectrum visits upon the other to manipulate public perception.
Milo Yiannopoulos’s ambiguous role is fabricated to appeal to opposite ends of conservative spectrum, so that both sides might then be swayed toward more extreme, alt-right views. He explained his role perfectly by saying his position with Breitbart countered the perception that the Alt Right is homophobic, and racist. He’s a shill to make their hateful rhetoric appeal to edgy progressives and third-party stooges in order to draw them into the alt-right fold. Also, since Yiannopoulos is gay, the alt-right can spin this to deflect accusations of intolerance.
The world was perplexed by 45’s recent, shrill warning about immigration when he said: “Look what’s happening in Sweden!” We are quick to cite this as just another example of his lies. Then, a few days later, riots break out in Rinkeby. The Alt Right News then posts an article proclaiming 45’s near mystical powers of prognostication.
Through the election until now, I’ve been struck by the propaganda, mendacity and maddening projection, whereby paid trolls exploit gullible viewers and draw them toward extreme positions on both the left and right.
This is not meant to cast aspersions on Thom Hartman, Bernie Sanders, Jill Stein, or the good intentions of their supporters. But I think it’s a lapse of judgement on Thom’s part. The trade-off isn’t worth it.
The word “troll” needs qualification–there are many forms. Some are ornery cranks who, at least, honestly represent their true motives. Some are masters, who raise trolling to an art form–SNL’s Fatal Attraction satire is an example–while others are paid by the alt-right to pose as progressives who encourage us to speak against our own self-interest. Much troll activity is to get us to echo Alt-Right, talking points.
For instance, trolls–under the guise of progressives–encourage members of the resistance to gloat about the murder of a Klansman. This only validates the extreme, right wing propaganda that claims the left is the hateful, violent party. This image of the left as violent can be used as pretext to attack protesters. This is crucial. At this time of escalating tensions, we can practice a compassion and human decency that accords with sound strategy–to say nothing of protecting ourselves and loved ones who participate in peaceful protests.
We need to be wary of the propaganda campaign against the DNC which encourages progressives to smear Elizabeth Warren for her alleged, selling out to establishment Democrats. According to this line, it is not Russian interference, but she and Hillary who are ultimately responsible for # 45, as well as our current malaise. You see this echoed on the RT affiliated, Ring of Fire and Redacted Today videos. Since Putin doesn’t allow dissenting opinion–without an ulterior motive–are the rad hosts of R of F being exploited by Putin in his attempt at a global coup? Or are they willfully parroting his party line?
The ultimate form of control is to compel us to participate in our own subjugation. Putin, from his KGB experience, knows this well. We shouldn’t be stooges, drawn by trolls into dizzying webs of dissembling and projection. Don’t allow them to frame the dialogue in their own terms.
Actually, there is some truth to progressive intolerance–we are intolerant of the racist and treasonous policies of the 45 gang.
The real mystery does not behave mysteriously, but speaks a secret language.
–Carl Gustav Jung
Bird poop is the Prima Materia of the opus, the alpha and omega of the great work of the philosophers. Transmuted and transfigured by the alchemical fire in the sealed retort of the adepts, the excretions of our winged brethren reveal the grand pageant of creation on the microcosmic scale. I shall endeavor to elucidate the arcana of avian excrement and thereby elevate my humble office of brush bearer to that of high art; to seek amid the white glyphs that adorn the docks a sign that might illuminate secrets of a hidden world.
Bird poop is the mother of all elements, without beginning, existent from all eternity and mixed with the handful of primal earth Adam brought forth from Eden. It is found always and everywhere. It contains the Divine presence in the obdurate whiteness of its adamantine– and often goopy–reality. It is both the beginning and end of the great work, the primal ooze from which the aspirant takes flight into the rarefied spheres of heavenly gnossis.
This post is the first in a series logging my daily circumambulation, bearing the broom of my high office. The broom is the emblem of adepts, the standard of those who seek the philosopher’s stone among the crustacean beasties that reign over the intertidal zone.
So the land swap was stopped when the City Attorney admonished the Council it was their obligation to compel Parks to abide by the terms of the transfer and honor the restrictions. The Council then voted unanimously to record a conservation easement which would preserve the Tot Lot in perpetuity.
But then, Val Tollefson moved to delay the recording of the Conservation Easement while an access road was worked out between Laughlin, Parks, and the adjacent, Madison Cottages community. It seems the Madison Cottages folk decide it best to accommodate the access road because if the Wyatt Cottages proposal is not granted, a more intrusive and aesthetically disagreeable development might replace the good work of Cutler/Anderson Architects.
Point well taken, but too smacking of defeatist accommodation for me. And since the good folk of Madison Cottages represent a mere fraction of Park’s-going public, why should they have such disproportionate influence?
We await the announcement of the Wyatt Cottages proposal to the Design Review Board with a mixture of dread and anticipation. Will the concerned parties present accurate information this time around regarding the Declarations of Covenants, Restrictions and Reciprocal Easements–remember those?
This is but a sketch of a convoluted tale of intrigue. There remain such details as the erroneous reports by the County Assessor, a land value increase of nearly 80% the very year the property was transferred to Parks, the “disappearance” of the studio from the assessor’s building report 2 years before it was demolished, the miraculous appearance of a ghostly pole-frame building, mysterious address changes, and specious readings of legal terms.
It seems we are afflicted with a double denial of many troubling aspects of the concurrent Wyatt Cottages and Suzuki developments. On the one hand, the Madison Cottages community–as well as the Friends of Suzuki– sweep the shady history of land transfers to Parks under the rug. On the other, we have the present Council embarrassed by their part in obscuring Parks and the previous Council’s questionable deeds. Add to this HRB’s reluctance to jeprodise Council support by allowing public scrutiny of these sketchy practices, and the tight-lipped, good old boys in the Building Department, and you have a first class cover-up.
All sides of this debate can be said to lack transparency. We need a fresh and honest perspective on the issues that shape the island’s future. We need tranlate our high ideals of inclusiveness and economic equality into practical solutions while preserving the precious remnants of our natural environment.
So I took the Prince Ivan thoroughfare up the hill to the east of town to where Joel had said E.G’s new developments were. It seems a big mall was in the works and EG, with the backing of some Ohio LLC, was building a pharmaceutical emporium and a corgie day care center. There was a broohaha when local poodle lovers had protested this plan as being discriminatory against their chosen breed, and had filed a complaint with the City to that effect. But the mayor, being a member of the Little Siberia corgie society, set them straight on that score, and the permit had fairly sailed over the desk of her brother Vinnie in the planning department.
I turned onto a gravel road that led north into the woods. A white and yellow building notice was spiked on the wide based of an old-growth cedar. I got out and walked down the road until I saw a short old guy with ruddy complexion being led by, what appeared to be, his grand daughter. After a respectful greeting I asked:
“Did you know this parcel is being developed by a mobster?”
I’ve been told, that for a private eye, I exhibit a marked lack of discretion, and this was not lost on his grand daughter who attended his obvious infirmity with touching solicitude. He hobbled, leered at me with a sideways grin, and said in a thick, southern Italian accent:
“That’s good. It will be protection.”
I got back into the Dart, lit a cigarette, and thought it over. All the seemingly casual series of events now funneled into an inevitable vortex in which the alluring image of Lupe flowed with languid abandon in the smoky arabesques of my square.
I suddenly became quite nervous indeed. For here in this lonely stretch of woods, all the crazy, disconnected events that transpired on the rock added up in a most disconcerting manner. It was as if all the paranoid imaginings of my troubled adolescence had come to realization; and the events of the past week had formed into a clear pattern. Most of all, I saw that no interference in the schemes of real estate speculators to realize a tidy profit would be welcome—especially such interference as might be offered by a simple artist like myself who does detective work as a sideline.
I was having, what we used to call, a flashback, and all these horrid imaginings unfixed my hair and made my heart knock frantically against all the studied uses of cool. The line between real and imagined dangers becomes very sketchy at times, and steadier mugs than myself have found serious trouble in extravagant delusions and a swell dame in a skin-tight, sequined dress. At such moments it behooves a simple gumshoe like myself to breathe deep, take a powder, and intone the sacred mantra: Fuck that.