Being Born

To be born = not to be.
Naître = n’être.

Humbly I apologize and ask my English readers to have a look at the French version. It is all about the language of the birds. This is linked tightly to French language and as I am not English mother tongue, I am totally unable to translate it but I want you to have a chance to understand this very important settlement:

Naître = n’être. To be born = not to be.

see the French original and try to get it using this plain translation:

To be born = not to be
Life is not here.

Real life awaits us right after this parody. Here is what I believe tonight. To be born = not to be.

Thank you to those who, tirelessly, century after century, have made the French language a marvelous tool for understanding the authentic world and real life.

This tool has been called the language of goslings since the Middle Ages. Yes, goslings, not birds. Goslings are the goose’s cubs. And Mother Goose plays the leading role in understanding the hidden secrets. If it is a gift from the gods of before, resulting from ceaseless work for eons, then it is a safe bet that the language of the goslings is not reserved for the French language. It is found in all the idioms, all the jargons, all the dialects, all the slangs, all the codes that man thinks he is inventing. He invents, of course, but does he suspect that the gods blow everything at him? And especially this fabulous tool.

The Goslings were once the children of Master Jacques, the pilgrims of Saint Jacques de Compostelle who wore the scallop and the crow’s feet.

The scallop is for me the best shellfish. Yes, far ahead of the oyster. And even in front of the abalone. From my window, I see the trawlers leaving the quay to set off towards the enormous deposit which lines the sand of the bay of Saint-Brieuc. Saint-Jacques shells by the millions. The resource is strongly protected by the operators themselves, who have set themselves very strict quotas so that the best scallops in the world continue to benefit from the plankton-rich waters of the bay of Saint Brieuc.

And let me put another chauvinistic verse: the port of Erquy is the first shell port in France. Think about it the next time you find your shells delicious. They come from my home. I see their habitat through my window and I am delighted.

But yes, all these treasures, all the wonders of the worlds, empires, exploits, the conquest of space, the Louvre museum, Paris, the lead equestrian statue of Louis XIV, the Saint Jacques Tower … Compostela … Medieval cathedrals … None of this has any other than virtual reality. None of this is true. This is all bogus.

Only we don’t know. And without the winks of the Language of the Goslings, without Xavier’s short-scale, without these virtual pages as and yet truer than all the books, how would you know that
To be born = not to be?

You wouldn’t know, sneer the Saurians. Reptilians. The gods before. They know. And they laugh so hard it makes them cry. Crocodile tears, of course.

mother-goose-illust-eng-688po
To be born = not to be

Now we have all the elements to understand my previous article: the brain hides death from us because it has been programmed by sachems knowing how to chase our ancestors without worry, gods from before anxious to give us free access to the Source. It is the gift of Athena, which the Sumerians call Ninhursag. And it is by this direct access to the Source that we obtain this information: death is bogus. Don’t believe it. Live for Life. The real one, the next one.

When we incarnate, we cease to be. It is the meaning of being born = not being.

Real life is after. Which explains why the dead don’t come back. They feel too fine elsewhere? No. They have nothing more to tell us? No again. The memory of what they “lived” among us was faded at the moment they died.

They are enjoying a super super awesome life without a shadow on the board. Real life comes after a false stay in the toilet of time. Life in full, up and down, better than your dreams, better than mine, life at last. Can you imagine a little? I believe in it a lot.

 

Science without conscience is a soul’s decay.
François Rabelais