. . . geez, there have been so many I can’t even remember their names. Oh wait, here’s one: Martin Geddes, way back when he was on twitter, pre-Elon. A long time ago. Now he’s caught up in British affairs, and since I live in the U.S . . . or what used to be the U.S., until Pluto began it’s first ever return to its own natal place when this nation was born, relentlessly exposing and purging the depths of corruption now sinking this nation into the waters as surely as the Star Spangled Banner bridge was rammed-into-and-detonated? Geez, are we back at 911, only worse, even more destructive? And oh wait: WHO DID IT? Black hat? white hat? Oh, but calling something either white or black is so hopelessly binary . . . as if everything that happens or appears to happen is either one or the other, never both, never some kind of confusing, demoralizing smear or cgi deep fake, brilliantly gamed out decades ago to take out the national supply chain, leave us high and dry . . . on and on . . . and oh, but wait a minute: what about Diddler Diddy! Was the bridge collapse into troubled waters a mere distraction from the Mossad? blackmail list of this Epstein.2 “rapper”? On and on. Every awful thing a cover for and/or distraction from the one just prior, or the one to come, or all of them all together, rising and falling, like a filthy oceanic tide.
Oh, and hey, what is in those shipping containers the Dali was? carrying? Trafficked children? Organs? Body Parts? Adrenochrome? “Illegal aliens?” Guns?
Oh, and did you see this? Salvador Dali painting: Broken Bridge and the Dream.
Nightmare dream.
Q: Watch the water . . .
In any case, I have a new name to which I’m clinging, and frankly, with such fervor that I worry about my sanity. Indeed, not since Q have I awakened each day and wondered what new nuggets Ariel, aka Prolotario1, would be offering now. Which truther? influencer? he would be exposing now. And yes, why oh why is he still allowed on the new twitter/X?
Frankly, I’m flummoxed; both by the endless series of outrageous/outlandish claims Ariel makes, as well as by my own frantic desire to have him be the real deal.
As if anyone is “the real deal.” As if there truly is a single, strong, steady life raft to which my non-woke, aging female self can cling as I/we drift aimlessly through increasingly stormy seas, both inside and out.
Instead, Ann, focus on the here and now. Right here, right now. This place. Green Acres Permaculture Village, Bloomington, Indiana.
You’ve been here before. You’ve assumed the end of the world before. Starting with the Fatima predictions when you were a kid; then Y2K, then 911, then “End of the Mayan Calendar (November 2011 OR December 2012), on and on; the upcoming Total Eclipse, which some are calling, thrilled, The Rapture! — is being “weaponized” (favorite new word of everybody) as but another “false flag” to frighten the still sleeping masses out of their wits.
Am I one of them?
Do I take the bait?
