Astrologer, published author, conference presenter, world traveler, founder & editor of Crone Chronicles: A Journal of Conscious Aging (1989-2001) , and founding visionary of Green Acres Permaculture Village (2010 to present).
Wild. I posted a chart and interpretation for the Arizona Audit report yesterday, and then forgot this morning, that it was set for 1 pm Arizona time, not EDT, as here. Which meant that when I went to look for it at 1 pm EDT I couldn’t find it. In fact I actually spent about 20 minutes doing just that, and it’s utterly amazing how many hundreds of reports from, of course, ahem, “mainstream” sources I came across that all claimed, using mostly the same language, that the forensic audit showed Trump lost Arizona to Biden by even more votes!
I assumed that the black hats are so deviously clever that they managed to keep all news of the audit report event off the internet. That would be huge, of course. Even more huge than one pundit’s assumption, that the internet would go down entirely today, due to the deep state’s desire to squash the audit. In any case, I assume I will say, once 4 pm ET rolls around here, that it would have been huge, but wasn’t.
In any case, in a world full of fake news and subterfuge of all kinds — name it and we can find it somewhere — it wouldn’t actually be surprised if the propaganda arm of the deep state did manage to keep the audit results from going public, at least at first. But Truth has a way of outlasting lies. And remember, the chart showed that the Sun is approaching Mars, and that this news will reverberate through the first three weeks of October.
Meanwhile, it’s feels obvious that we have now reached an historic switch point, and that the future we are heading into will not resemble the past we have left behind. Here are two items of interest that point in that same direction. The first from James Howard Kunstler’s Clusterfuck Nation, and the second from Clif High’s “Woo” series. Both within the last 24 hours.
Time, the saying goes, is nature’s way of making sure that everything doesn’t happen at once. So now, maybe, we’re at the event-horizon where nature is suspended, because everything seems to be happening at once. The weeks ahead will determine whether we are a coherent society that can function on the basis of a firm consensual reality, or just a convocation of battling narratives designed to conceal anything that quacks like truth, all veering toward failure.
Up this afternoon (Friday) for instance: the results of the Maricopa, AZ, election audit. The New York Times has declared a preliminary draft of the audit “a cap-gun ending to an inquiry whose backers hinted would turn up a cannonade of fraud.” Their conclusion: “Joe Biden” won the 2020 election fair-and-square. That would be momentous if it were true, but is it? Or is it just the juke of a player that typically runs zig-zags through the facts? The Times certainly has an interest in, shall we say, getting ahead of the story in its never-ending quest to control the narrative — as opposed to delivering actual news fit to print. I’m standing by to sort out the jokers from the face-cards.
Otherwise, it’s been a less than stellar month for the putative winner of that 2020 contest, the media figment known as “Joe Biden.” His open border policy flipped savagely on him as a nine-month influx of Central and South Americans (and opportunists from even more distant lands) turned into the bad optics of some 15,000 Haitians (most up from living in Chile, Colombia and other non-Haitian places) flooded the zone at Del Rio, Texas. Predictably, their insta-town under the border bridge turned septic when the few Port-a-Johns dropped off there boiled over — instant Haiti! — and the appalling situation could no longer be hidden from the news media.
Federal border agents next tried policing the scene on horseback — arguably a daintier approach than driving SUVs through the mob — and the news media instantly parlayed the scene of horsemen using the reins to control their mounts into a narrative about slaves getting whipped in the cottonfields. In other words, another chapter in the testament of “systemic racism.” Even the notorious race hustler Al Sharpton drifted down to Del Rio to sprinkle a little gasoline on a potential fire, but his audience heckled him into submission and the operation fizzled.
Meanwhile, “Joe Biden” cranked up a cosmetic airlift sending a few Haitians back to Haiti — which they had fled from years ago to live in South America — at the same time shuttling another cohort of Haitians over to Houston and other cities around the USA, as if nobody will ever catch on to the shell game being played. Any way you cut it, the fiasco on the US / Mexican border had turned into a big loss for the Big Guy since the economic alarm bells ringing across the country tell you the last thing we need is more illegal immigrants to compete with actual citizens for a declining number of low-paying jobs.
The Big Guy also had a bad week on the family grift front as the story broke, first on Politico and then elsewhere like a brushfire, that the trove of incriminating memoranda on Hunter Biden’s laptop was for-real, and that the concerted effort to hide all that muck from the voters during last year’s election campaign was a completely dishonest operation. Add up all the memos and emails on Hunter’s hard-drive and you have a pretty clear digital trail of a major racketeering operation that can no longer be denied. So, will Merrick Garland’s DOJ keep ignoring it?
The Attorney General was probably forced to approve John Durham’s recent indictment of Hillary Clinton errand-boy, lawyer Michael Sussmann, from the DC Lawfare Central outfit called Perkins Coie. I say forced because it was an open-and-shut case, and denial by Mr. Garland would have been seen as just another RussiaGate ploy by an agency hopelessly tainted by years of official criminal misconduct — and let’s assume that Mr. AG Garland does not want to be dragged into that mess, especially as Mr. Durham is unraveling it. And the Special Counsel signaled that he is doing just that by implicating a wheel of culpable public figures in a 27-page indictment for Mr. Sussmann’s simple crime of lying to the FBI, which could have been accomplished in two concise paragraphs. That is, expect the Sussmann indictment to not be the end of a matter that could be tending toward a massive RICO indictment against the entire DNC wax museum of liars and seditionists.
Coincidentally — and on rather a separate track — we have China’s latest export to the advanced economies of the world: the meltdown of its bond market as signified in the wreck of super-gigantic real estate conglomerate Evergrande. Behold the broken daisy-chain of obligations stretching to the furthest reaches of global finance and the deleterious effect of that on capital markets everywhere to follow. The central banks are pulling out the last stops now to prevent a general meltdown of hallucinated “wealth” around the world and you can probably measure the success of that last-ditch effort in days as we enter the cursed month of October, when skeletons dance on the graves of lost fortunes. The stage-managers behind “Joe Biden” look forward to that as they would to so many stakes driven through their degenerate hearts.
Speaking of hearts, there is the current heart-of-the-matter, the Covid-19 engineered bioweapon being used internationally to suppress formerly free citizens of formerly democratic republics. It becomes more obvious each day that everything connected to this extravaganza is other than it appears to be. Chiefly, the vaccine is not a vaccine and it will probably end up killing more people than the Covid-19 disease and its variants. A lot of those deaths will be caused in the months ahead by damage to people’s hearts and other organs from spike proteins generated via mRNA shots. The reported official numbers are all lies of one kind or another, issued by agencies primarily concerned not with public health but with covering asses at the highest level, so do not trust them. If you haven’t had a vax shot, better seriously consider steering clear of your government’s desperate attempts to get the job done.
Events are converging. Everything is happening at once. Narratives are in collapse. Governments may soon commence to fall. Food and critical supplies of parts for things needed to run advanced societies are up next. What will you decide to do about yourself, your community, and your country?
Here in Green Acres Permaculture Village, we gathered, as usual on Tuesday mornings, for one of our twice-weekly two-hour work parties, to decide as a group what we need to do now: Concensus? Keep on weeding, harvesting, and preserving (dry or freeze). More and more, in this new Aquarian age, we are coming up with new ways to get things done. One of them is for each person to be in charge of something that we like doing anyway. Examples: for me, it’s harvesting and drying this year’s enormous crop of Roma tomatoes. For Joseph, a new member of our tribe, as of today it’s harvesting and freezing kale and other brassica greens. Which he will be able to do through much of the winter, if he remembers to keep taking off the outside leaves. He’s also talking about slow-cooking an enormous pot of greens (from those he froze) for our weekly Community Dinners.
But first, we all discussed, briefly, our common understanding that we are entering an unprecedented period of extreme turbulence in human history, and that we are wise to be gathering together, and growing and preserving food, while hopefully remaining centered, balanced and grounded, no matter what! So that we can remain and grow as one of the tiny lotus pods sprouting world-wide up from the muck of our now rapidly decaying civilization; the first seeds of a new transformational culture that will find us once again, as in ancient days, connected to both each other and this beautiful planet upon which we live and move and have our being.
So interesting, this extended Recapitulation Project of mine. Once in a while I am moved to actually reread an essay, while moving it into google docs. And both times so far, an essay written decades ago resonates with our current world.
Now, once again, I feel resonance, and so offer this essay, composed and published soon after reading the following remarkable book, about a village in Germany, prior to World War II.
“WELL? ARE YOU COMING?”
Crone Chronicles, Spring Equinox 1998
Crones Counsel IV, San Diego, October 16, 1997. I am standing in a circle of women, drumming and dancing around a huge central bonfire. The night is young. We await the rising moon.
Suddenly one woman’s dance spirals into a frenzy, her feet pounding, staccato, as she erupts into a wild, soul-rending cry. I sense the energy of her Celtic ancestors surging up through the soles of her feet, to her heart, her brain. Susan is joyous, ecstatic, electric, at one with her tribal roots, releasing and expressing that mystical pagan exuberance which has been damped down for centuries.
I turn, walk from the fire down to the ocean’s edge. Witnessing Susan’s epiphany has made me feel oddly alone, separated — from Susan especially who, I think, is fortunate that her ancestors are Celtic. In coming into her original self she is handed an inheritance of power and beauty and mystery. Implicit in this thought is the idea that I do not have Celtic in my background. Nor do I have Afro-American, or Native American, or any of the usual ancestries which women proudly proclaim in re-membering themselves. This negation of my own heritage, or what I should call this void, this blank, this absence, this numbness — is not a conscious thought. Had what occurred next not happened, I probably would not have noticed how fully this peculiar and habitual disconnection from my own heritage has been woven into the lifetime texture of my awareness.
Later that evening. I am sitting cross-legged on a bed across from Tasha in her hotel room. We are casual, at ease. Suddenly Tasha seeks my eyes, says she wants to give me a short reading. I am surprised, but willing. Why not? Looking at me full in the face, Tasha intones, in a solemn voice: “There is something of great value which you would gain by investigating your Teutonic ancestry.”
I am stunned, slack-jawed. Both that this information should so suddenly come in out of the blue, and that this information is precisely what fills the void that I mentioned above. Yes, my ancestry is German, on both sides, Teutonic. I think back to the fire, and to my own sense of alienation from those whose pride in their ancestry has made them strong. The thought that my ancestors are German strikes me to the core. I am both gladdened — that I am now to consciously acknowledge my ancestors — and revolted, physically nauseated — at the fact that I am German, that my ancestors are German. I shudder to recognize why I have not come into conscious contact with my German roots until now. Being German leads back to Hitler, to the Nazis. One cannot think of one without the other. In order to go back and reclaim my Teutonic inheritance I must, somehow, encounter and integrate my Nazi heritage and press through to what lies below.
For over 30 years now my motto has been, “What I am most afraid of, that is what I must do.” And clearly, here, I am shown the path ahead. Knowing that there is something I must do, something deeply unknown and ultimately, I sense, utterly transforming, excites me. Despite my horror at what I must initially encounter, the Nazi lion-at-the-gate, I realize that the information and the timing of its sudden appearance in my life makes sense.
Astrologically, I am a double Sagittarian, meaning that both my Sun (my essential self) and the Ascendant (the persona or personality) were in that sign at the moment of my birth. Sagittarius is the sign of the philosophical search for Truth, universal perspectives; when imbalanced, Sagittarius can devolve into intolerance, righteousness, judgment. In addition, the planet Mars, symbolizing action, courage, even violence, when not used with awareness, at my birth was in Sagittarius and located in the 12th house, a hidden place, a place haunted by karmic patterns connected to family, genetics, ancestry. Mars sits opposite two other planets, Uranus and Saturn. This conjunction of Uranus and Saturn, two slow-moving planets, occurred during World War II. All those born during that time have this conjunction in their birthcharts.
Uranus symbolizes sudden, strong and unpredictable eruptions or flashes. Saturn symbolizes restraint, control, discipline. These two planets are opposite in meaning. When fused during World War II, Saturn/Uranus symbolized both the cold efficient genocide of the holocaust as well as the controlled fission of the erupting atomic bomb. During that war the two planets traveled in tandem through late Taurus and early Gemini. At my birth, they were in Gemini, a sign of intelligence, and can signify sudden brilliant flashes of intuition.
From 1995 through 1999, the planet Pluto (associated with the hidden energy locked in the heart of the atom, and symbolizing death and rebirth, destruction and resurrection) transits through the early degrees of Sagittarius, triggering both my Mars and the planets opposite, Uranus and Saturn. In the birthchart for the U.S.A., the planet Uranus is located exactly on the position of my Saturn, so the meaning of this transit of Pluto for me and for the U.S is linked.
Along with a few other grassroots organizations, we publicized and attempted to halt the October 13, 1997 launching of the Cassini probe to the planet Saturn. This probe contains 72.3 pounds of Plutonium (Pluto-nium), the most toxic substance known. When this probe returns from its circuit of Venus to fly dangerously close to Earth on its way to Saturn in August, 1999, the planet Pluto will exactly oppose the planet Uranus in the birthchart of the U.S.A. Expect sudden, unpredictable, and possibly nuclear events.
In my own chart I ponder the meaning of transit Pluto conjunct the Mars/Uranus/Saturn karmic pattern. And I realize that the explosiveness of my own character, the rage which I am only rarely in touch with, is usually smoothed out, one might say blanked out, so that I only experience it mentally — as harsh, severe judgments, against myself and others. (How German!) In this way I separate out — from others, from my own body. And because I judged Nazism, I could not see through it, to the Teutonic ancestry below, and deeper, to the more ancient nature religion. According to C.G. Jung, World War II broke out when the Teutonic war god Wotan was aroused in the unconscious of the German people. And because they remained unconscious of its energy, Wotan did what it willed with them. From a Jungian point of view, Hitler was a projection of the mass mind. If Hitler had not existed, the Germans would have had to invent him.
Wotan exists in me. Wotan is my rage. Hitler is my rage projected. What lives below that? As my favorite Teutonic philosopher, Ludwig Wittgenstein, put it: “It’s hard to go back to the beginning, and not go further back.”
I think back to a dream, about a year ago, of being in the presence of an enormous white Pig. The dream haunted me for months. Now I discover the sacred animal of Freya, the Great Mother Goddess of northern European lands, was the Pig.
It would be nice to just skip Nazism, skip Wotan, go right back to Freya. To identify with what I know I will love, rather than with what I certainly do hate. But this is not to be. Again, a dream shows me the way.
November 25, 1997: on the one night of the year that the Sun transits my natal Mars (still being pummeled, remember, by the extremely slow-moving transit of Pluto); the Sun illumines that karmic pattern in my chart with this dream:
I am with a man whom I want to impress so that he will be attracted to me. We go to his family’s large rustic log house, which is in the mountains. There are lots of people, and lots of activity. A little girl, around two years of age, with coppery red hair and a round face, attracts me. She shines from within, is luminous, numinous. The man and I leave the house, begin to walk away. I turn around, to see this child walk down the lawn to a pond below — and fall in! As she falls, she hovers in the air, long enough for her eyes to meet mine, knowingly, as if to say, “Well? Are you coming?”
Instantly, I rush to her rescue, assuming that I will be able to easily pluck her out with my hands. But as I dive into the water, it is murky, and I struggle to remove my gloves so that I will be able to feel her. I feel for her body in the muck, and do not find her.
I awaken from this dream feeling a terrible sense of failure for not saving the little girl. I am judging myself as usual. The little girl, I assumed in the dream, and from the dream, when awake, must be dead. But then, in processing this dream with my psychologically astute friend Claudia, she notes: “The dream is inconclusive; her body was not found. You don’t know if she’s dead . . . Besides,” she murmurs, “she is numinous, divine. She is not dead.”
The divine child is calling me, beckoning me, she is urging me to leave my mind behind, and follow her down, to dive into the water, descend into the muck of feeling….
Meanwhile, fortuitously, I happen to be reading a book by Ursula Hegi, Stones in the River, about the experience of a female dwarf in a German village during the first half of this century. The book is riveting in its portrayal of the extremely difficult choices people encountered during the gradual, insidious emergence of Nazism. How ethically murky the situation was. How, in the daily context of events, it was so easy to fall out of integrity, so simple to lose one’s sense of discernment between right and wrong. Over and over again, the book moves me to tears.
December 5, 1997. I hear about a weekend celebration in a town three hours from Jackson, put on by the northwest chapter of an organization called “Dances of Universal Peace.” Instantly, on hearing about it, I am alerted from within to attend.
I drop everything to spend three days with 100 strangers, participating in sacred songs and dances from the world’s religions — Islam, Sufi, Christian, Goddess, Hindu, Judaic, Buddhist . . . Hour after hour, circling with and around each other, holding hands, meeting eyes. Over and over, I burst into tears, and attempt to stop myself from doing so, so much do I want to keep on singing. Never have I felt so at home as while participating in these beautiful timeless dances, some of which are more than an hour long, involving small ritualized movements, all of us at once, nodding back and forth, over and over chanting the name of God in many languages — Ali . . . Allah . . . Allaha — one long sustained prayer. One hundred beings moving and singing and breathing as one.
On the drive home from this weekend, I am filled with joy and warmth. So grateful to have been able to participate in such a beautiful event! I am looking forward to the next one, at Eastertime. Oh, if only the world’s peoples everywhere could participate in such simple and universal ceremony, honoring all religions, partaking of the mystical communion of souls . . . If only we would surrender to our union, let go of what divides us, let go of war . . .
In the midst of euphoria, another darker thought worms its way in: I recall, a few years ago, attending a local performance of Cabaret. During this musical, a chorus of beautiful, uniformed young men sings the Hitler Youth Song. As the sweet, yearning idealism of what had been a German folk song filled the air, I was shocked to feel an arousal in my whole body, as if the cells in my very blood were awakening. The shock of recognition of that song, of my blood connection to it, filled me with shame — a shame so murky, so profound, that I instantly tried to push it back down into the unconscious.
Yet even as I was pushing down that hot blood in me, I was struck by the fact that I, an educated American several generations away from her German roots, could be so taken over by Nazi propaganda music. Had shame not overcome me, I would have realized then that what I loved of that song was the music, that Hitler had taken over a beautiful old folk song and given it new words.
That memory, counterpoint to my euphoria, serves as a warning. I realize that this hunger for mystical union can be manipulated by good (as in the Dances of Universal Peace) or by evil. That to my body, it doesn’t matter. That either way, my body responds. What does this mean? I wonder. Does this mean I cannot trust my instincts?
I awaken the next morning with a cloggy, mucousy, respiratory infection. Forewarned by the dream, I now descend into the murky watery depths, and remain there, stuck inside the misery of my body, unable to think, for 12 days. And what I am feeling is grief, overwhelming, incomprehensible grief.
The situation reminds me of when I was 26 and danced all night long, only to fall sick the next day and almost die. That event marked my personal transformation from socially-conditioned nice girl to a more original and courageous sense of Self. What will this dance and this illness, this new turn of the spiral, bring?
While ill I continue to weep, absorbing Hegi’s tale of how good and evil seem to be inextricably connected, how difficult it is to separate them, to know for sure about anything.
Seven days into my illness, another dream: I am returning to Jackson from a far-flung Wyoming town. There is a baby in the back seat. It appears to be mine, and has just come into my life. The road gets more and more clogged with mud, potholes, abrupt edges. Men are working on the road. I am slowed to a crawl, and wonder how long this is going to continue. Now traffic is channeled to the south — but I don’t want to go south, I want to go west. I get off the road on an artery leading to a long muddy construction site of a town, which is under an interstate, also being repaired. I see a line of women, and ask one of them how far I must go through the town to reach a place where I can get on the interstate where it is through being repaired. She gives the location of the exit, which is only a few miles away. Relieved, I turn to the baby, who is fussing. I worry, oh no, did I pack diapers, bottles of milk? I look in my bags and see that I do have diapers, and I have bottles of water, not milk. Facing her with my head only a few inches away, I hold the bottle to her mouth, and she drinks, looking surprised at the taste, but accepting. Then she reaches her little hand around my neck to the back of my head, and holds it there, in a sweet embrace. She gazes into my eyes. I am so filled with her love that everything else disappears.
I awaken from this dream knowing that no matter how murky things get, no matter how much mud and mucus I have to slog through, that I am loved. That the divine child warms my dreams, opens my heart.
This process of going back to the beginning has just begun. I do not know what awaits me. Something is beginning to seep in, something important. Indeed, I feel that it may signal the eventual deconstruction (transit of Pluto) of my seemingly hard-wired (Saturnine) habit of judgment. For judgment is only possible when a situation is clear; when good and evil are separate, discernable, rather than subtly woven one with the other as yin to yang.
The grief, overwhelming at times, still accompanies. I know it has personal roots, and I sense those roots plug me into our collective story. That our grief is being encountered in his/story now. The grief of all that we have done to one another in betrayal, in vengeance, in the name of “God.” Of all the wars we have fought in the name of someone’s good and another’s evil. Of all Earth has suffered as a result of our much-vaunted “intelligence.”
I think back on my life, noting the prodigious amount of intellectual energy I have given over to describing, evaluating, analyzing the stuff of daily life. How I have assumed that sooner or later, everything becomes clear, that there is a bottom line which, if I just search deeply enough, I will fathom. That there is one overall perspective, which, if I just ascend high enough, my mind will encompass. Though for years I have called myself a “relativist” — sensing an infinite number of perspectives, all of them limited — still, I am Sagittarius, and it seems I cannot help but search for the one, the One Truth which will give me what I “think” I need. To establish my “point of view.” To stop the flow.
What seeps into me now seems to be all-encompassing. Through it I feel the music, the dance of the universe. Beyond all judgments, or even discernments — beyond good, beyond evil, is this sense, this — what shall I call it?—this ISNESS. This glue that binds the whole, this Love. So that there is nothing, really, to discuss. Nothing to understand, evaluate or shape.
The divine child of the second dream held my head in her hand as she gazed lovingly into my eyes. No matter what I may “think,” no matter what choices I make, leading to good or evil, I am loved, beyond all measure.
January 2, 1998. I have just seen the movie “Titanic.” Our collective myth of the 20th century brought to extraordinary life at century’s end for us to process and integrate. So that we don’t have to repeat ourselves. So that we no longer need to separate ourselves into richer and poorer. So that we learn to slow down, and trust. As the colossal, state-of-the-art “unsinkable” ship went down with lifeboats for only half its passengers, we were faced with another impossible situation — good and evil all mixed up, and survival instincts overwhelming even the best intentions. As the divine child calls me down into the murky depths to encounter the feelings that bind my spirit into matter — all the shame, all the wonder, all the connection — so are we as a people faced with our murky depths.
At the movie’s end, the crone figure whose memories frame this vividly recalled story from our collective memory bank intones, “In the heart of woman there are secrets as deep as the ocean.” Yes. And even Time Magazine, in its year-end recap of 1997, called it The Year When the News Turned Emotional.
”And you? My teacher looked up, his left eyebrow arched, pencil poised. 'I want to do a paper on the concept of time.’” I mumbled, timidly. 'Time?' He sniffed. “I wouldn’t touch the subject. Too difficult.” — AK, 1967
“The longer we live, the larger, the richer the background against which all future experiences take place, and the more complex and subtle our understanding of our own past.” — AK, 1986, A Soul’s Journey
“To me, the most interesting question about human memory is why only certain events, rather than others, carry a charge. Where does the charge come from?” — AK, 1986, A Soul’s Journey
“At a party, many decades ago, a man whom I had just met burst out, in a tone of wonder: ‘You are the first continuously splitting schizophrenic I’ve ever met!’ I bowed low and responded, ‘Thank you!’” —
”And you? My teacher looked up, his left eyebrow arched, pencil poised.
'I want to do a paper on the concept of time.’” I mumbled, timidly.
'Time?' He sniffed. “I wouldn’t touch the subject. Too difficult.”
— AK, 1967
Ann Kreilkamp
Ph.D. 83
Astrologer, published author, conference presenter, world traveler, founder & editor of Crone Chronicles: A Journal of Conscious Aging (1989-2001) , and founding visionary of Green Acres Permaculture Village (2010 to present).
Thanks for this one, Ann! I resonate with the part…