Plays Were the News and the Propaganda of Shakespeare’s Time

The Symmetry of the Snowflakes

The picnic grove was instantly transformed by fast-falling snowflakes. In this very clearing, several months ago, two gentlemen were discussing the owl cry. The owl was happily too-wit too-wooing in a nearby tree.

“Which Shakespeare play—how did it go—its famous—that owl cry—that fatal bellman,” one of the gentlemen said to the other.

“Do you know?” One of them said, looking at me, “The Shakespeare play with the owl shrieking in the night.”

“I would guess it’s the one for which we cannot speak its name.” I reply. The two gentlemen exchanged glances, looking first at me and then at my hound.

“Ah, you mean the play that brings forth superstitions and fear?” one of them said, nodding in understanding. “Indeed,” I confirmed, “the very same play that shall remain unnamed.”

I left them to ponder the mysteries of Shakespeare’s work as I continued on my way through the autumnal grove, which is unrecognisable as such now—snow blanketing the boughs of trees, ferns, heathers, and the once grassy picnic area. The air was crisp and cold, causing my breath to form tiny clouds in front of me as I walked. The transformation of the grove from a vibrant autumn scene to a winter wonderland only added to the eerie atmosphere surrounding the forbidden play.

“It’s a veritable winter wonderland, isn’t it?” I say to the approaching figure—her dog rollicking in the snow.
“It’s wonderful; it’s beautiful and pristine—only our foot and paw prints mark the way,” she replies.

The hound is excited as we enter another clearing lined with pines, demarcating the area like watchful sentinels.

We are busy-mesmerised watching snowflakes fall.

Snowflakes are the result of the interaction of temperature and humidity in the environment. They have six-sided symmetry due to the hexagonal configuration of water molecules. The temperature determines the structure, with higher temperatures producing needle-like crystals and lower temperatures producing flat, plate-like crystals. The snowflake’s complex arms evolve dynamically as temperature and humidity levels change. Physics cannot describe the beauty of their unique six-fold symmetry in a geometric arrangement of molecules held in their hexagonal lattice.

The magnitude and direction of vector energy are an expression of scalar energy—an energy without direction—that is everywhere at the same time. The unique patterns of snowflakes are a consequence of the specific conditions experienced by each crystal as it descends through the atmosphere.

“Dr. Emoto, he spoke about imprinting water with our energies—do you know about the water and rice experiments?” the woman asks me.
Snowflakes flutter like winter butterflies in swirling plumes around us as we talk—the dogs contently investigate their new landscape-romp after each other stops only to lick the icy crystals from their snouts.

Dr. Emoto conducted an experiment where rice was placed in three identical glass beakers and covered with pure, clean water. He said “thank you, I love you” to the first beaker, “I hate you, you’re an idiot” to the second, and totally ignored the third. After a month, the rice that was thanked fermented, while the rice in the second turned black, and the rice that was ignored began to rot.

“I felt alone, isolated, and ignored in 2020,” she says, cupping her hands over her mouth and blowing.

“I did, for a while,” I reply. “Now we know that we are many and we are strong.”
“It’s an important lesson,” she said, whistling her dog as we went our separate ways.
I think of friends and family—their loved ones dying alone—no one to advocate for them—the withdrawal of food and water—the criminal use of opiates and midazolam. While the use of life-sustaining oxygen and steroid treatments was withdrawn. Proven, tried-and-tested drug therapies with decades of safety data were suddenly prohibited.

Cries for help: desperate people have their social media posts shut down. Ignored: no public scrutiny; no postmortem investigations; obsessional use of personal protective equipment—too many hiding in fear behind the masks. Ignored—no recognition of the vaccine harms—told by doctors, it was all in their minds. Ignored. Doctors and nurses are threatened. Threatened by their managers if they fail to do what they know is wrong. Whistleblowers, dismissed and disgraced, are ignored. A chilling atmosphere pervades wards where medical professionals are forced to compromise their ethical standards.
“How very little can be done under the spirit of fear?” Florence Nightingale
When I get back from the walk, the hound curls up in her bed beside the log burner. She finds solace in the warmth and comfort, oblivious to the chaotic world outside.

The government’s actions worldwide have literally caused hippocampal neuronal death in our brains. Intentional death? So many of my friends who have taken the government juice—the injectable—tell me they are wandering about in a landscape where all is unclear—they wake up with brain fog and go to sleep with brain fog. They report having limited functionality and reduced autobiographical memory. This is by design. During 2020, lack of human contact, lack of exercise, lack of new experiences, lack of sunlight, and lack of proper nutrition, minerals, and vitamins equal a shrinking hippocampus. Toxic chemicals in the environment further shrink the available memory space; old memories are erased to make way for new ones. The old memories were erased and virtually unrecoverable. They, the elite parasites, want us trapped in zombie mode—in our safe, collectively narcissistic world. Rinse and repeat. Those technocratic oligarchs require us to be simple humans who crave familiar situations and routine. The creation of uniform humans with limited mental ability—highly intelligent but in a limited and controlled way.

In times of perceived crisis, plague, or war, there is always ample justification to introduce totalitarian controls that otherwise would be unacceptable.

“Regrets, we all harbour them, don’t we?” I ask the missus.

“My friend was telling me about her good friends—another one just last week—she has died suddenly.” My missus begins. “You can’t change what’s done, but you can change what’s to come,” she replies. “I was thinking about the death of Hamnet, the eleven-year-old son of Will Shakespeare—was it the bubonic plague—was it slipping from a high bough or drowning in the mill pond late at night? Was it suicide?”
She looks anxious as she contemplates the uncertainties of life. I know she is thinking of a tragic loss—a loss much closer to home.

The plague is less like a dagger but more like a scythe.

Hamnet craved his father’s praise. Will was busy in London running the theatre; Hamnet could read and write, but his twin sister could not. Was it not Judith, his twin sister, who spoke aloud the sonnets that Hamnet wrote down, much to the delight of his father, who praised the boy highly? Lies by omission?

“Much like the authoritarian restrictions on free speech today, Cromwell’s puritan reign of parliament saw acting banned in London, leading to the closure of theatres for nearly 20 years,” my missus points out.

“The theatres were, at that time, perhaps the only ‘media’ for normal people,” I suggest.
The first of Shakespeare’s plays was performed in London at the original Globe Theatre in 1599.

Few people—except the rich and privileged who had access to libraries—could read or write in 1660, including Will’s wife Anne, whom he married when he reached 18 years of age. The plays were the news and the propaganda of the time. Will’s father was a leather worker, specialising in soft leather gloves. Did the money help pay for Will to attend grammar school until he was forced to leave—a youngster of 14 years in 1577? Will Shakespeare was a very successful theatre manager. He not only, we are told, wrote plays but also acted in them, which added to his success. His involvement in the theatre industry allowed him to establish connections and gain financial stability.

Big, powerful corporations like the Crown, then as now, require a certain framing to be made palatable—a nuanced spin—the media—the giant clunking machines must be harnessed to the work of producing credible swathes of propaganda for public consumption. The ground must be prepared, and the audience must be made receptive to the messages. The message stated was both subconscious and/or inferred.
“Edward de Vere—what of him?” My missus asks. “Was he brought and paid for—to keep silent—a thousand a year stipend from Lizzy?”

Paid to keep his silence for writing those plays—full of details very few would be privy to—that history would attribute to Shakespeare? Edward, 17th Earl of Oxford, was enlisted, coerced, and blackmailed into the secret service of the time—a special role to fulfil. This role required him to use his writing skills to create propaganda that would shape public opinion and maintain the desired narrative. His allegiance to the crown ensured that he was well compensated for his silence and dedication to the cause.
We should keep our family close, especially our children. Praise them as often as they deserve.

We should take care of them, give them love, be attentive, and speak with them. Indifference causes the greatest harm. Thirteen winters have passed—the life of our young nephew burned brightly—and all too soon was no more—and yet his vibrant essence—his spirit—is with us still.

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