There is an unusual kind of grief that washes up on the shores of the self when realizing how much has been given to someone else at the expense of ones own development. It adds weight to the deep dark and damp environment within where red flags are buried and songs of the self have been silent for years. Imagine if Pinocchio had stayed with the circus, the fox and the cat, and remained in the sticky smelly venues of show business.
Imagine all the people vaxxed, who are injured or dying, coming to realize, it was all a ruse for making money. Uninformed of the contents, uninformed of the risks, and led to believe it was something it actually is not. Not a vaccine, nor is it safe, and who by now can still make their mouths say effective? How many times have you had Covid since your shots? If the covid19 bioweapon doesnt kill us, the villainous plan to depopulate the world using vaccines just might. For those of you following the science, here is one revelation to consider. Check out the other posts on that substack.
Im thinking of Pinocchio this morning, waking from a dream of being back in the hall of the cult, where there is no day nor night, kinda like Las Vegas. The light is always electric and artificial, and you lose any sense of time. I was hiding behind one of the marble pillars and peering around to see the stage. No strings on me, but just wait.
An institution ruled by secrecy creates an environment of stunted growth and backwardness, where deep shadows of suppression take hold. The controller, the one holding the puppet strings, calls it containment, double-speak for secrecy. Not being contained is an admonishment. It is offset with the ego-bait of increasing ones personal power by containing secrets. Keep the secret and gain more power. That is the message, clearly understood without needing to be spoken.
That is only one example of many dictates required to meet the unreasonable standards of the controller. With all there is to do, and not do, like bureaucrats in government, there is very little energy left to develop character, to mature into a contributing adult, or rise to a loftier expression of oneself. We remained as we began with him. Worse, we became stunted and handicapped, never able to heal past traumas, or to really rest in a space of awareness that may have opened or developed into authentic understanding. In effect, we were continually yanked in one direction and then another, wooed with a vague assurance of some spiritual predilection, a consciousness that never ever materialized because it was in fact all nonsense. Recognizing psychological operations in the cult made it easy to recognize psyops and propaganda in the cult-at-large. It has the effect of disorienting a persons mental equilibrium, combining instinctual fears with a promise of redemption.
As long as we stayed with him, nothing evolved within our understanding of ourselves or the world we inhabit. We were cloistered in his perpetual shit show.
Keeping secrets does not increase a persons personal power. Keeping secrets can cause illness. Keeping traumatic secrets can result in excessive stress and guilt for the person carrying the burden of knowledge, even when that silence is thought to be the best possible option for all concerned. Physical symptoms such as anxiety, headaches, backaches, and digestive problems can occur when disturbing secrets are internalized, rather than shared, especially over a long period of time. Persons harbouring such discomfort often turn to alcohol, or other addictive substances, to mask their pain. It is important to remember that both the person keeping the secret, as well as those who live with the secret-keeper, including young children, can experience similar physical and mental health issues. [Suzanne Handler, MEd. 2013]
The cult of devotees includes many young children. Used to be they huddled together in a windowed room, as if they were little fish in a big tank. They ran to that endarkened room at the back of the hall, visible to him on the stage but out of sight of the congregation. Their parents were enrapt with the stage performance, and their children were often considered a nuisance, or so I heard it said by some parents. Many of the children experienced fears and terrors that could not be explained. Unable to sleep, unable to relate with others, unable to simply be okay as a kid. They received the same treatment as their parents from the controller. Best not give any attention to those things. Don’t address any of it. Let the deep have it. It isnt real, he would say. Nowadays the Grand Hall is a far off memory and the meetings happen at a remote campground, winter, spring, summer and fall. When the kids arrive, the first thing they do when they see each other is scream.
Suppression. In psychology that means the restraint or repression of an idea, activity or reaction by something more powerful. Looking back, his pathology appears much deeper and more powerful than anything we brought to the table. Or to the chair, as it was called. There was no question of who held the most power in those meetings and woe be it to any challengers. He could put someone down effortlessly, utterly destroying their persona, and leaving them shell shocked with so-called teachings that now appear to me to be his own vile projections. They were fairy tales of leashholders, power-holders and unseen entities that sounded very dark and dastardly indeed. No wonder the kids were scared most of the time. We were too, if we dared admit it. He spoke of things that could completely shatter a person. He did shatter people repeatedly. And like Crazy Cat, most of us came back for more. It wasnt the shattering we returned for, paid for, and sat through. It was the shimmering. It was the circus. It was the show which takes me back into my dream.
There I was, hiding behind the pillar and watching a marvellous stage production with spiralling neon lights, thunderous voice overs proclaiming the master of the stage, the chosen one, the endarkened one, the paragon of spiritual wizardry, the one and only most astonishing person who ever lived was there before us, covered in pulsating lights and moving on the stage like a native dancer with feathers made golden by stage lights and white strobes catching bits of colour. Impressive. In my dream I thought maybe I would come back for a meeting now and again. They’re so entertaining! See my strings now, pulling me back into his shit show.
I woke up thinking of Pinocchio, and now Peter Pan, of never growing up in that venue of his venereal secrets. I never became real, living inside his life, bowing to his authority.
Is it even conceivable that growing up can happen in a world of secrets? Secrets are suppressive. Suppression is a terrible thing. You never really know what is going on. Something else grows with suppression, a dark thing, weighted with fear or anger or grief or whatever is not allowed to be expressed. Its a living thing that fattens up in shadows of doubt and unseen places. It hides deep down inside. It waits.
A reckoning must be near. Amidst the quickening of so many people around the world, awakened or waking up, there is enough to know we are being controlled. We know what Julian Assange is up against, and why. Meanwhile, the cult of John de Ruiter keeps on dreaming. Wrapped in their own tiny culture of language, sexuality, and plagiarized teachings, they sleep and sleep and sleep. It seems the whole world will wake up before they do.
When, if ever, have you been involved in something that necessitated your hiding it? Nine times out of ten that would be a sexual thing, a sexual secret. Steven and Ondrea Levine hosted a workshop that included one on one meetings with the facilitators so that participants could off load any secrets they were carrying. Almost all of the secrets were of a sexual nature.
What world is this for children, embedded in an institution of secrets, constantly under the gaze of a controller? Any designs on a life outside the cult, any dreams of greatness and artistry were always squelched and suppressed by him. And there was so much amazing talent there. Performers who could take your breath away with their music and instrumentation. Artists and craftsmen giving everything up to the controller, dismissing their own individual purposes for his sake. Dont be distracted by the world, he liked to say. Some children broke away, rebellious and bright, unwilling to succumb to his pressures. Others remained and remain today, a gaggle of mostly girls running to him at the end of meetings, getting their heads stroked by someone who one day might…repeat what he has already done. For all those girls, beautiful and on the brink of womanhood, I look to the Kings bench to bring his stultifying labyrinth of secrets to an end.
Love that you reposted this! As those young women are a year older and a year closer to….
The opportunity
Isn’t noted in impurity
Or lashed out vengeful /security,
It’s a lesson to calmly denude
As all angels of entrapment are viewed
So down the road we create a brighter brewed.
Ok we’ve had a moment of reflective whine
When our way expectations didn’t shine
And we’ve been skinned all the way down to the nub
Where the Constitution can be burnt by the tub
Talk about a base of two hundred
While entire nations are being plundered
And you and your pen wax local
After all this good practice. acknowledged expertise.
What the hells here
Save a decent increment?
And the ICBM’S like the parameters
point every which way.
Hint; you like it, that an insult, no
Yea, 2 guys just sitting screaming whaaaaaaaa
You know who else is there naaaaaaaa
It’s next and the Segway is ssssppppiiirrrriiiittt
It’s the leave
if you go somewhere
but if you’re staying, it’s the leave, nuffer,
Nuffer it’s the leave.
Even if you’re staying, how you leave anything
Mitout having a made at it. It’s nothing even you.
Bang, outa nowhere der comes
Someone’s baggage, someone’s cream
There’s a boa constricter on my inseam
Squeezing at my armpits bugarug
But no, we had to know and we’re starving,
Dern snake.
Or the lack of relativity and rehearsed R tik U late shun
The new blog could be in the midst of;
EVERYBODIES DOING IT DOING IT; AND THE FAT LADY DIDN’T SING.
It's my gig because the protection racket's a flat tired taxi.
I love you’re brilliance Jess, could ya move it vertical a tad?
It be dangerous here. What ya got, spitballs? local?
Battle lines drawn and your home's being sunk.
Brick's already been through the window.
Set your pins up in another ally, stay eternally vigilant*, whittle your big stick and walk as loud as you feel necessary and please keep writing.
* eternally vigilant to the eternal