God Has Given Us Rights to Pure Air, Water, Food, Home and Family, Light, Heat, Warmth, and Love

By Ray Wilson

Flipping The Switch

“Merry Christmas!” I shout out in the direction of the beam.

“Bless you,” she replies. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to shine the torch in your eyes.”

It is a balmy 13 degrees, and still a dark grey cloud blankets the road, making it seem earlier than it actually is.

My hound lies still flat on the ground, trying to make herself invisible to ambush the approaching dog and have a great game of tangle the leads. As I walk closer to the beam, I notice the faint smell of pine in the air, reminding me of Christmas past.

“Are you ready for the big day?” I inquire.

“Well, what I haven’t got now, I won’t be getting.”

The scent of the pine resin triggers memories as I walk—it’s going to be a busy day—and the hound will be on guard dog duties, but her furry rabbit ear treats will keep her occupied for a while.

I have been tasked with picking up Aunt Sally. We are going to take my aunt’s carer back to Brixton, drop her off for her Christmas revelry, and loop back to my dad’s place, where a traditional Christmas lunch is being prepared for Sally by my brother Rich.

Joyce-Sally’s carer regales with tales from home on our journey to Brixton.

“That’s the road, Joyce,” I interrupt.

“Mm-mmm, uh-uh, Ray,” Joyce says.

One Christmas past, I was taking Joyce back when the speedometer on the car stopped working. Another couple of miles later, the dashboard was flashing randomly like a gaudy Christmas tree before the engine cut out completely, and we rolled down that road and came to a final rest. The car would not start—not even a click from the solenoid.

Hector, a jovial black cabbie whose cab is white, rescued Joyce and took her the rest of the way—meantime Trev with a van of tools and a spare battery—to help me recover the car and limp it home. Memories can be like rubbing on a porcupine—the quills stick in the skin and irritate later on.

“It’s a special present, Ray, a special Jamaican cake, for you and your missus.”

“High octane?” I ask.

“Don’t get too drunk.” Joyce smiles as she gets out of the car by the wrought-iron gates of her home. “It’s got the kick of a dozen angry Jamaican mules,” she warns.

On the way back, Aunt Sally scrutinises the buildings and roads we pass. I imagine the memories flickering brightly on the screen of her mind’s eye.

“My pram was almost blown up there when I was in it. My mum told me that it was a miracle that the shrapnel didn’t kill me with blitzkrieg raining down on us—I was a Christmas miracle.”

“Look, our famous ‘flea pit’ is still there,” Sally points out at the Ritzy Cinema as we crawl by at the prerequisite 20 miles per mile. At least with zero buses and trains running, Sadiq Khanage is giving us the gift of an ULEZ charge-free Christmas.

“Was it popular back in the day?” I ask.

“You know, it was a treat on a Saturday—we would go—me and Denis. We would watch a film or something,” Aunt Sally reminisces. “The cinema was always packed.”

My mind wanders as I think back.

A time of owning very little—a time where we seemed to have a symbiotic arrangement with the government—snow was falling and a motley band of carol singers knocked on doors or stood huddled under the flickering light of the lamppost on the corner doing a recital of Good King Wenceslas. Frost formed geometric patterns on the inside panes of glass in the window. My mum would be up at the crack of dawn to cook the turkey, the cabbage would be boiling in a large pan, and me and my brothers would hover around the kitchen—opportunists waiting patiently, ready to test out any trimmings or pastry off cuts—ready for any bowl scraping duty ahead of the meal. Those days, a decade and a half after World War II-rationing ended in 1954, were magical. We awoke to an old stocking at the end of the bed filled with oranges, bananas, and apples; small bags of black jacks; and sherbet dip dabs—if we were lucky, some chocolate—a milky way bar. One year, my main present was a gyroscope that did amazing tricks balancing on a taunt length of string. I didn’t think about what the technology was or from what it was derived.

The V-2 rocket—the ones that dropped on London in September 1944—used a LEV-3 guidance system, two free gyroscopes for lateral stabilisation, and a PIGA accelerometer or Walter Wolman radio control system to control engine cutoff at a specified velocity. There were over 70,000 civilian deaths alone in World War II. The government at the time at least made some efforts to help people build shelters—some people were sleeping deep in the Tube station tunnels as the blitz raged above.

It’s very strange that over the last couple of years, 2022/23, excess deaths by official figures are 101903, and the government and duplicitous, mockingbird MSM won’t even talk about it. This lack of transparency raises questions about the reasons behind this silence and the potential impact on public awareness and understanding. Our government, the cold, unempathic corporation of government, does not love us; it hates us. It’s just a corporation, just like our monarchy—a cold, merciless corporation that extracts our energy in the form of tax receipts, uses that very same money to enslave us to fund illegal wars and so-called defence projects, and conducts experiments on the unwitting populace. We—humanity—are just some of the many items in stock. Our individual monetary values are determined by market forces—just goods and chattels on the inventory of the world. I think not.

“I haven’t got presents for anyone this year.” Sally looks crestfallen as she looks at her gifts before the Christmas dinner.

“Don’t worry, Sally, you can help with the washing up.” Rich laughs.
“Okay, I had better get going. I better not be late,” I say.

We-me and the missus have been invited to Christmas at our younger son’s place. As I drive home, I can’t help but reflect on the materialistic nature of Christmas. It’s disheartening to see how much importance society places on gifts and monetary value, as if that is the true measure of our worth. However, amidst all the consumerism, I find solace in the simple act of spending time with loved ones and cherishing the moments we have together.

The way forward—is it to stop feeding the demon? I feel strongly optimistic. Stop buying from the world’s corporations; shop local; disengage from their system. What we have been told is a distortion of the truth, if not a total inversion.

Imagine a universe—perhaps a flat universe. An article published in Nature in 2019 suggests that is the case, but that is not important—this is the important thing.

Our bodies are temporary shells; our individual souls are interconnected in a sea of intelligent living plasmas of scalar energy. At the moment, our planet Earth is in quarantine, held captive in a binary system. We are not binary digital beings, but we have been tricked and deceived into believing that we are a feckless ragtag bundle of ne’er-do-wells. We are not.

Good and bad energies, angels, and demons populate the plasmas along with everything that is, that ever was, and that ever will be. Our collective conscious intention is the power we use to simply flip the switch. We have all that we need on earth—God has given us rights to pure air, water, food, home and family, light, heat, warmth, and love. There is not a concocted official invoice from “the powers that should not be” that we have to pay. If that’s the case, it’s a criminal extortion racket run by the government, isn’t it? We have inalienable rights. To have privacy, to have the rights of sovereign men and women.

I have enlisted the help of my granddaughter to get Sally back home.

“Busy day,” I ask her.

“Always, Pap, I had to get all the residents dressed up and ready for Christmas lunch. It took forever—they wanted the loo, so it slowed me down. I don’t mind it, but I didn’t finish until 2.15 this afternoon.”
“You are a trooper; are you working Boxing Day?”

“All day, I’m afraid—but I’m off for a week in the New Year.”

We ease Aunt Sally into the wheel chair.

“Bugger it—Rich—got a second—a nut has dropped off of the wheelchair arm assembly.”

We can’t find the nut anywhere. Rich runs off to the workshop to get an M8 nut, and he takes a long time, but eventually we get the arm secured, and we decant Aunt Sally into the car.

“Thank you both for all your help,” Aunt Sally says thoughtfully. “I so miss my old home in London.”
“Well, we explored some of your old haunts today, didn’t we?” I reply.

My phone rings; it is normally switched off, but I am expecting a call.

“Hello, Joyce, do you need me to pick you up?”

“Hector is bringing me back to Sally’s, so you don’t have to worry.”

“Thanks Joyce, please wish Hector a Merry Christmas.”

Joyce relays the tidings. “You can sample the cake now, Ray.”

I switched my phone off.

Aunt Sally smiles nostalgically, her eyes filled with a hint of longing. All our lives are indelibly recorded in the Akashic records. The living-intelligence plasma that we inhabit. All our actions, good or bad, happy or sad, are there for all intents and purposes and for all eternity. We must be courageous. Ignore the scary idiots in their demonic garb; do not let them divide us. Let our spiritual gyroscopes guide us, keep us balanced, and stop us from falling. Do not let those who hate us impoverish us or put us into a state of fear. We must be brave in the face of adversity; all we need to do is merely flip that crucial switch. Good triumphs over evil; God wins; we win.

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