I belong to the country of the Gallic cock and I am proud: with both feet on my manure heap, I throw my cocorico into the sky. I belong to a republic whose citizens love other royal families. I belong to a secular nation: the Revolution of 1789 has thrown idols to the ground and replaced the cult of Zeusfrom Greek theos, zeus or dieu (god). by the one of Reason. Fatal bullshit.
Abroad, the French don’t like what is not French. And at home, they don’t like what is French.
The divine trio
Robespierre has made many mistakes. But his cult of reason is the winner. This damned Cartesian reason, from Plato and glorified by a stoner who lost his… It will have caused us some disappointment. His cult has fucked up even more than that of the one god in three persons, whom nobody understands. If this god is unique, how would it be triple? Everything is twisted in this neo-Christianism that follows the secret motto of the French: why do simple when you can make complicated?
Like any business that wants to win a large customer base, new religions must deal with past beliefs. The multiplicity of ancient gods has been reduced to a dozen, then three. Why this floor? Long before the invention of the Christian trinity, it was already obvious, the gods always come in threes.
It was therefore necessary for the new religion to find a trick so that the followers of the old one could find their advantage. Weak and not credible trick, but as long as it works…
Religions have existed since the first hypocrite met the first fool.
What evidence?
Perched high in their paradise, the great bosses did not bother. For the police of humans, they sent underlings. And the flying machines of the divine inspectors were three-seater: a sub-god who pilots and two assistants. I describe it in the article Three Divine Emissaries.
How did I guess? I wondered why many Mayan temples were topped with sculptures of three seated giants. And the light visited me.
When the gods of before returned home, in the Great Bear, the inconsolable Mayas carved the effigies of three gods on top of their pyramids. In the very place where the gods placed their spaceship. So people could continue to worship them. On the Mayan pyramid below, the divine effigies are well erased.
No doubt they have been hammered by the prophets of a new religion. Like the great sphinx of Giza, whose nose was broken because it was too blunt. The new populations had a lighter complexion than that of the Nubian pharaohs… eternal complacency. Racism, racialism, civilizations pass away, the bullshit remains.
There are only two things that are infinite, the universe and human stupidity. But for the universe, I have no absolute certainty.
The law of love
Immersing yourself in the study of an ancient cult, in the customs of an archaic civilization or in the thought of a pre-Christian sage always brings great joy. Whether we believe it or not, wisdom is flowing and clarity is there. When one scratches the varnish of a philosopher or a modern religion, one finds only consternation, narrowness and stupidity. This does not prevent the idiots to repeat that never humanity had reached such heights. The precious language of the goslings allows to write it differently. The turnip humanity has stained the tops… of stupidity and superficiality no doubt.
How to love this disaffected, disillusioned, demotivated, demoralized, disliked, displeased, desperate, dehumanized and decidedly disgusting humanity? Yes, how? If you have the answer do not write me. Let it know on TicToc the site in toc. You will reach a wider readership and people more affected.
I look at this anthill and wonder if men are still capable of love.
Francès Farmer (1913-1982) was an American actress of the great Hollywood era. Her tragic life was the subject of a film, Francès, released in 1982. Too far-sighted, she was hospitalized in a psychiatric hospital and lobotomized. I have an interest in being careful, clairvoyance and lucidity always attract the peak to search brains.
The Assembly Point (AP)
Francès loved love too much, in this point I am like him. It remains to wish that the resemblance stops there. Practice unconditional love, send love to the planet, heal by outpouring of love… What I write is likely to trigger the rage of the mental police.
By doing insane things, I can find myself in a delusion without any head. Last June, on the 8th, I had no control over my assembly point.
To understand the rest, read or reread The Assembly Point (AP) and Moving your Assembly Point (MAP). Knowledge of these fundamental concepts could help to cure many insane people.
Controlling one’s AP is a tricky thing. It can’t be done by will, only by intention. The two are not related. It is the chance of unconscious intention that allows me to achieve an impossible goal, to cure an incurable disease or to bring comfort. But the use of conscious will never allowed me to dislodge my AP from its usual bowl.
The PA Cups
What happened to me is probably from the toilet bowl in question. Humans today have PA stuck in a kind of energy bowl that has dug into their brightness — another name for our luminous aura. In this damned global culture, everyone has their PA strictly in the same place. A few centimeters behind the right shoulder blade is the universal PA in its single-seat bowl.
The PA is more or less embedded in the bowl. Those with the deepest bowl, with the steepest walls, are condemned to the tonal for life. I call them champagne flute. The familiars of the nagual, the accustomed to the exceptional, have the flattest bowls: shaped like a champagne cup. Those who have a good balance between the two are the wine glass. Accustomed to the tonal, they are also gifted for the nagual.
Attention! PA cups are much smaller than the glasses in the image. The PA is only a point, its bowl has the size of a thimble.
I flattened my bowl so much that it disappeared. The tonal eventually rejected me completely. I am now a non-bowl.
Consequence: my PA is no longer fixed, I can perform feats, like the old Nagualism seers.
Counterpart: my PA is volatile. Unstable. Roving. Slippery. Runaway. Elusive. Slippery. Free. And so am I…
Take someone who doesn’t keep score, who’s not looking to be richer, or afraid of losing, who has not the slightest interest even in his own personality: he’s free.
Mimicry
At the same time, I have too much married to the inner world of so many people who I love that I help them to free themselves, I became mimetic. Despite myself I become this or that, I believe myself one, I think of the other, I don’t know who I am anymore. With free PA, this mimicry has become seriously accentuated. The uncertainty about my ego is turning into anxiety. I watch a movie, I become each character in turn and it starts to change so fast that I get nauseous.
What I feel must often be felt by the beginning actors who are condemned by necessity to play small roles, what we call wigs. By constantly changing their character and appearance, these actors no longer know who they are, who they love, what they hate, where their lives end and where their roles begin. I suffer from the same condition. It’s called the wig maker syndrome.
Bulimic film lover, I sometimes immerse myself in several films at once. A bit of this one, a bit of that one, many of the third. When morale is low, I sometimes watch five movies in 24 hours. I mix it up, and it’s a terrible thing and it doesn’t make me feel better. Comedy makes me cry. They make me as stupid as their phony plots. Pretentious movies make me grind my teeth. They make me hate even more the vanity, pretentiousness, inanity, emptiness, nullity that they display.
My favorite are the mood films. They all look alike. I have no problem mixing them up. My wig maker syndrome is becoming painful. So I’m going to look at the garden. Nature is never ridiculous. Suddenly the garden takes its shape. Am I elsewhere? Am I here? My teacher of love, dear friend always, would you play me tricks? In my head a remake with the scent of turnip.
Hatred, meanness, greed, weakness, comedy is inhumane. Let’s take off the spaceship.
… For life is a lost good when one has not lived as one would have liked.
Metaphysicist
When Aristotle wrote his encyclopaedic work, he did not know how to name a new chapter of philosophy. As it was the chapter that followed physics, he called it metaphysics. Which means “after physics”… simply!
Thank you, Aristotle, it’s all me. I travel beyond the physical without a weapon or baggage. I see myself as a point in the infinite astral.
Above, all is love. This feeling is not invented by men. It is omnipresent until the very end of the Septuagint Seven Multiverse. He alone transcends the temporal and spatial dimensions.
Astral is love.
Am I in love with love? As a perfect metaphysician, I am interested. Everything I observe in me, I check it, I calibrate it and I store it in my concept cellar.
If he stinks of the butt, he will go all the way down. If he exudes the joy of being, I tell it here, in these pages, beautifully put into words and images.
Passing time, I go out in all weather. Mature to the passing time. Laugh at the space that tends. Leaving space, time-shifter, soul-passing, world-dweller, dimensional prowler, star-marauder, I become metaphysical musician and mechanical fluidic.
I am the same non-matter as spectres. A ghost, an invisible shadow, a draft, a tiny breath on the hand of a giant god who has been dead for eons. Passing Porter, I’m just passing.
The other side of the wall
Metaphysical? Where do you want it? In my pocket with my handkerchief on top. I don’t know who we are. All of us. I don’t know why we’re on earth. And what we do here. Or where we go. Then I am like this sad little girl with eyes that eat her face. The life here frightens her. The greedy saws the fresh.
If we can get out of this maze, it will be from above. By the sole force of love. If one can lose his soul, strip himself of the only insurance on death, it is by not loving. By refusing to love anyone, and first of all oneself.
Void Traveler, I testify that there is a perfect world on the other side, behind the walls of our prison. We hold it for a kingdom, it is a mortuary.
Life and death are the same. When we say “after life” it means “after death”.
