By Ray Wilson
All Is One and One Is All
I am stiffening my backbone; my mind is concentrated. It’s another early Saturday morning full of mist and mellow fruitfulness. I understand that by witnessing thoughts, feelings, and emotions without attachment or judgement, one can develop mindfulness and awareness, but I am struggling to focus on the task at hand and keep escaping from logical thinking and intellectual examination. I feel a shift in the air—a change in the zeitgeist.
The motorcycle combination is up on the ramp, the front forks are removed, and my brother Rich nudges me, “We had better get these forks disassembled and the new seals in, hadn’t we?”
It has been an intense week for my youngest son and his partner. They were told that beds were not available and to maybe try later. Staff were under pressure, and there were no available midwives. They eventually left home for the hospital.
“We won’t be back until this baby is out,” my daughter-in-law said adamantly as they drove away.
“Sorry, Rich, yeah, I am miles away.” I say fumbling with a bunch of spanners.
My practise of meditation and motorcycle maintenance is not as present as it normally is when conscious of thoughts, feelings, surroundings, and work, but I feel discombobulated and not totally present in the moment.
“That blinking dog of yours has dug another hole,” says Rich, almost going base over apex.
“Better fill it in before dad comes out, what with his legs getting worse.”
She races over to the gate to greet Mick and sits like butter wouldn’t melt.
How’s it going? Rich asks. Mick gives a treat to each of his dogs.
“Yep, okay, I suppose. I am sick of the travelling, the delays, and the fines.”
He looks over at me and says, “Don’t you say the ULEZ word.”
“I think the politicians are scared; they aren’t worried about their constituents, not an iota, and they have no conscience; something is spooking them,” he continues.
“There are a few brave ones like Andrew Bridgen getting it on the record,” Rich says. “Maybe their masters have issued orders, but scared politicians cannot argue that they didn’t know but only that they were following those orders.”
“I had better leave you to it, but I think in all honesty,” Mick says with a sharp intake of breath, we need a cull. There are just too many people on the planet.”
With that, Mick tugs on the dogs leads and says, “Better get them home.”
“Which of your family would you volunteer?” I wonder.
“You know what it said on the Georgia Guide stones before they were “blown up” in July 2022—my wife is into this research stuff—maintain humanity under 500,000,000 in perpetual balance with nature,” Mick says as he walks away.
The Guide stones support the idea of a one-world government, government-guided eugenics, and a global language. The shadowy Mr. Christian, whose details are unknown, was behind their construction in 1979, the year of the world’s first anthrax epidemic. Upon the completion of the monument, the letters and records were destroyed, so that no trace of the sponsors remained. A certain Robert C. Christian published “Common Sense Renewed,” a nod to Thomas Paine and his Rights of Man, although Mr. Christian’s main focus was on the need to control human reproduction.
In 1768, Thomas Paine moved to Lewes as a customs and excise officer. He published a pamphlet exposing corruption, leading to his dismissal. After escaping debtors’ prison, he met Benjamin Franklin by chance in London, which resulted in a new career in America. He authored “Common Sense” in 1776.
We are told that cities are essential to modern civilization, as they have been congregating since agriculture was invented 10,000 years ago. Agriculture provided enough food for a settled crowd, and cities depend on farms and watersheds. With over eight billion humans on Earth, it’s an accidental experiment with enormous stakes. The Earth’s biosphere must supply and absorb waste and poisons on a renewable and sustainable basis for the long haul. This, we are told, is all because of those pesky humans; of course, some are far more pesky than others.
We are told that cities offer hope and better living conditions than suburbia, as they house many people on small land patches. Proper urbanisation can remove humans from a significant portion of the planet’s surface, benefiting threatened species and our enmeshed relationship with Earth’s life web. Would the 15-minute city really be the bolthole of the superrich? A place where they might weather the storm in safety and observe the devastation they devised unleash itself on the surplus population. Which of our esteemed politicians have been promised places of safety as a thank you for their compliance and invaluable help?
Emptying the Earth of seven and a half billion humans would not only require imposing it but rather managing how the powers that be sold the idea to us. We are many; they are infinitesimal in number. It would be crucial to their plan to avoid extremes and idealistic purity, but with enough subliminal messaging, could we be convinced that we are mongrel creatures on a planet and persuaded that we are destroying it? Chlorinated, fluorinated, poisoned by vaccines, toxic air, and food—it would be easy as pie, would it not? A test of the public’s general cognitive abilities has been deployed under the guise of COVID. Let’s see what percentage of the population buys the lie based on who’s wearing the mask or who takes the fake PCR test. Those who comply are the enablers: scared doctors, nurses, and businesses brought and paid for to promote the lies. We must not comply with the restrictions already documented and poised to be rolled out for the next big Scamdemic scheduled for 2024.
These parasitic oligarchs salivate over the concept of depopulated landscapes and how they are to be transformed into new agriculture and pasture, providing habitat corridors for creatures. Carbon-negative flows would be created, drawing carbon out of the atmosphere and fixing it in the land. These working landscapes should exist alongside empty land, which is almost empty and, notably, mostly empty of people. A land that is surrounded by oceans that are only partly fished. This, of course, is essential for a civilised permaculture—a sustainable civilization that can be passed on to future generations. We are told there is no alternative; we must fit our species into the energy flows of our biosphere. Really? Where is God in this equation? Who exactly are these self-appointed global parasites that hate humanity so much and seek to destroy us?
I am meant to be at a special garden party in the early afternoon, but circumstances are conspiring against me. My missus won’t forgive me if I am late, but two bolts have sheared off and will have to be drilled out and threads re-tapped. Normally, this is not a problem, but time is not on our side.
“Come on, let’s have a break,” Rich suggests. “Might as well have a coffee?”
“Okay,” I agree reluctantly.
We reassembled the front forks. My mind is not on the job; normally this is therapeutic, and my brother senses my lack of concentration.
“What’s up, Ray?” He asks, “Are you still thinking about the baby?”
“I am pondering,” I say slowly. “After the trauma of the birth, the umbilical wrapped around his neck three times, and when he was delivered, he was unable to breathe, but Rich—they both said the same thing, and it happened to both of them at the same time.”
“What do you mean?” Rich asks.
“When by the following morning we had heard nothing, we knew there were problems, and eventually the message came through explaining the complications.”
I told him it, as my missus had told me. My son and daughter-in-law were in different rooms in the maternity suite.
My son heard his partner screaming, “Don’t let my baby die.”
He was in a state of high adrenaline, very stressed, and emotional when he felt a calming presence and somebody brushing against his arm and then holding his hand.
There was nobody there, but the screaming stopped.
The funny thing was that my daughter-in-law felt someone at her bedside clasping her hands at that very moment.
“Look, Rich, thanks for all your help this morning, but I better get going and meet our new baby grandson now that he’s home at last,” I say hastily.
“No worries, I will clear this lot up; you go, brother,” Rich says, wiping the oily tools and moving the trolley jack, “and say hello to the little one from me and dad.”
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