Just when I thought I buried this stack of inquiries, another ugly head grows out of a hydras body. Bob Dylan and Baby Blue didnt make it go away. Believing positive thinkers who say, words will create your world, especially if you believe them, failed. Just when I believed this could be over, another monster challenges me.
I used to wonder how things might be if Huxley and Orwell had written a positive view about our future. Would it be different? These days I wonder if Huxley and Orwell were actually early instruments in the generational game at play, the world wide wicked game to control us. Were they planting seeds of what to expect in our futures? Is that how the powers that shouldnt be get into our heads? Yes, for sure, through fiction and fantasy, when our defences are down. We are relaxed and open to being entertained and unwittingly entrained.
Recently, Ive noticed a trend that is freaking me out. Cult members are waving in our direction with signals of love and affection. This cannot be good.
You might imagine it is good because they use the love word and surround it with heart emojis. They hug you when they meet you now, when last time they wouldnt even look at you. They touch you. Like the Borg of Star Trek, they may be trying to assimilate you. A new edict is clearly creeping through behaviours moulded by the Dark Lord, a Love Order, for everyone living under his influence. In actual fact, hes a leader with mocking derision for the members of his clan, at least when theyre not in the room.
I remember the first time I saw the motorhead making fun of someone who had come to him sincerely, if a little bit strangely. I dont want to mention any names, said the motorhead, but…and he launched into an impression that made it painfully clear who he was talking about. It seemed funny. Im sure I laughed. Later, turning over one way and another trying to sleep, I wondered what impressions did he make of me when I wasnt present? What kind of joke am I?
Its a sham, this love bombing. Out of nowhere the bombs are suddenly landing on apostates. Its a joke. It happens in cults the world over, in order to obscure reality and manipulate followers. Beneath a promise of something higher or greater or kingly, the Dark Lord is up to something hidden. Whatever it is, if you were in your own mind, not living under his influence, you would likely resist out of moral conscience. But you are swept off your feet by the dopamine released in the bombardment of love missiles aimed at your heart and mind. You dont even notice what hes doing. Until you do, and then its too late.
Think about it, there must be higher love
Down in the heart or hidden in the stars above
Without it, life is wasted time
Look inside your heart, Ill look inside mine
Things look so bad everywhere
In this whole world, what is fair?
We walk blind and we try to see
Falling behind in what could be
Bring me a higher love. Oh oh.
Wheres that higher love I keep thinking of? What real and true love must be emasculated for the sake of Dark Lord Love, his cloying wrap for a mind enslaved? Heres a juicy prophecy of what the world needs now: Dark Lord Love, and its coming for all to see when the Kings court convenes. The honeytrap womb of the motorhead continues assimilating people with pretensions of love and grandiosity. It works because his words sound so beautifully true, and his coven easily identifies with being special, chosen and transcendent. He needs twenty one months of devotion and dollars before he will reveal his Real Face, A Face the Whole World will be unable to resist. Devotees just have to find an edge on their seats they can cling to for the time it will take before he can reveal his True Depth of Darkness.
Behind his face, he is laughing. His followers are cartoons he makes fun of, as his necromancing hand holds down any unacceptable flows. Like questions. Like the unspoken anger of husbands that settles into cells and proliferates in disease. Any doubts that would naturally occur in a similar relationship are not permissible inside his wall.
Its suppression with a love label so you dont see and wont look at what is actually happening. This happens all the time in the cult-at-large. It isnt labeled as love, but programers know our love of titillating drama. Just as Swifts inventive scientists pitched their misdeeds from La Puta down upon a guileless populous, the daily news is heaped upon our love for drama. Temptation overwhelms any real news of the day, so consumed we are with a devils island. Look here at one of Americas most famous blackmailers! Look away from the hidden powers legitimizing evermore restrictions on our lives and our freedom to live it. They are coming for our state and provincial governments while we doze on the couch in our den.
The honeytrap womb becomes a feel-good tomb, burying believers in a gurus fiction. Still they look upwards, starry eyed and huggable. Meanwhile the truth is buried far below their obedient surface, way below the misguided service to a master. Or an unkind mother. Or whatever entity is in charge that lacks conscience and loves having power over others.
A malevolent mother hinders development. Hoping to stay out of her range of fire, Ive created a few habits of defence, well crafted over years of experience. I may have gotten away from her, but the habits remain. Habits that made me a good contributor to the cult, helpful and appeasing, excessively attentive.
I am making a way out of this. I have good help. And just when I put the whole thing down, once and for all, another thing presents itself. The indoctrinated sheep crying out, We love you! We miss you! How odd that today they are in love when they have been silent for two years, turning their backs on friendships that werent about love, but about staying in line, staying in love with their master, staying sweet and obeying.
The second anniversary of my departure is around the corner. As vivid as my initial turning away, I remember the one-year-anniversary of my freedom. To the day, I was in a shop and ran right into the Son of John. It was a cold day. We went head to head, toe to toe. Definitions were demanded. Defences were unfurled. There was the unearthly, all-embracing energy of the Dark Lord, shimmering above our heads and all around us. Whatever that alien glow is, no one seems able to say. It made me think of love, how I had loved, how love was in me for the father and the son, and how this love had been unrequited, evidently unworthy.
I felt in my cells that the shimmering all around me was something of love. It was so familiar, so strange. The way the atmosphere becomes watery. Vision goes half-blind. Sensations occur in the body but awareness departs the physical vessel for a rapt and riveting bliss.
I voiced it. I loved him and it was unrequited.
With a glint in his eye, the Son of John said, maybe there is something we can do about that.
As if he could hook me up to a higher love.
Ive heard the Dark Lords motor running intently on this love track before. Love. Love. Love. Its so irresistible. In a cult, love is a device used to assimilate people, and to subdue feelings or sensations of anger, or heaven forbid, hatred.
When I see their names in print, believers with their red hearts, their stars, and the love bombing, I am filled with a kind of hatred. Perhaps akin to the feelings my mother had for me, her receptacle for all the self loathing she would not deal with. There she became me. Or maybe its more the feeling of dread, that the bombs are getting closer. I do not want to be in the line of fire. I do not want that kind of love. It has no roots, no depth. It waxes and wanes according to the Dark Lords whispers, according to who he is making fun of at the moment.
If I did stray into their line of fire, I may not love them back. I might tell them they are assimilated. They are owned. I might say there are natural feelings and sensations beyond the narrow band of sweet acceptance of all that is for the sake of one mans power and control.
This love wave is the sort of pre-emptive strike the Dark Lord uses for his next normalization of what isnt normal and isnt acceptable. Coming soon to the cult near you, and you will love it. Mark my words, this bomb run is a precursor to a whole new level of fraud and exploitation.
Seeing faces of people I once knew in the cult, I feel afraid. Im afraid of what they are given to becoming. Cells in my system remember life under the influence of his alien love. The wavy, watery atmosphere of bliss and belonging, fabricated for dark desires and compulsions. It is a healthy fear of assimilation into someone elses agenda, what appears as a shimmering, alternate world, a world where people are owned and played. It totally freaks me out.
I did not expect fear to be part of my passage out of the cult. How frightened I can feel to have willingly acted in ways someone else dictated while my authentic self was shelved. Maybe killed. Metaphorically, of course. If he did actually kill someone his sheep know it would be for a higher purpose. So Ive heard said, and he did not deny it. He did suggest it may not be appropriate to talk about. Keep that knowing to yourself, kiddos. Frightening.
I wont be returning to being hardly human like that, barely alive. I do not want a nanobot in my brain working me to do what a Dark Lord says. I dont want to become a little motorhead with no brain of my own. Frightening. I look past the bogus love charms dancing in the faces of the assimilated and remember when that was me. Thats the scariest part, doing what was easier than becoming my own sovereign authority in my life. Theres a crux worth considering!
Any new realization must be challenged. Hence this current exposure to love bombs. As long as the Dark Lord decrees it, the bombing will continue. If it lures anyone back into his fold of narcissistic sheep, I will be shocked. If it tricks anyone into revealing what is not to be revealed until The True Dark Lords Coming Out date in court, it will be but trivia. His new fiction of pompous superiority is all tinsel and fakery, an artificial tree that never grows. The forest of followers around him will never grow either, eternally waiting for his True Magnificence to be revealed.
Its impossible to develop in his devouring womb.
Life in a cult causes the personal self to be sublimated into an image and likeness of another and all personal development stagnates.
Enough of this rant.
When I think about spirituality now, I know it is no shimmering atmosphere or love struck baby stuck in a cult womb. I dont believe it is very much about love at all, other than love being one of the many experiences that life in a body heaps up, a good bad good bad good bad experience.
I wonder if these essays could be spiritual? Do they answer who I am and how my own mind functions? Im not always clear. Sometimes Im hedging as if my mother still lurked nearby.
Could these written explorations be a real spirituality? Not complying with demands from an authority, or to a religion called The Science, but working with my own thoughts and feelings, aspects of the self that were renounced or mocked in the cult?
Lifes vitality is not meant to be suppressed, not meant to be assimilated into someone elses bank of energy. Vitality will argue with suppression and disease will result.
Isnt the essence of spirit and spirituality something existing in all of us? Could it be what guides us through thick and thin, be it reality or the unreal? Is spirituality my own vitality, governing all the levels of my existence? Maybe spirituality is sorting through all the things that have rallied in my mind from across the span of a lifetime. There are many people in there, lessons learned, lessons relearned, glories and catastrophes. Mothers. Teachers. Motorheads. Bob Dylan. Baby blue. A Dark Lord.
An infinite etcetera!
All of what she said in the last paragraph...takes a lot of etcetera to get there; but not infinite, I dare say.
From one of the perhaps plethora of gee rues that become immersed in the sexual side of teaching; paraphrased, "For an uncounted sum, life direction's map explodes conscience most profoundly with the perceived conclusion; I AM NOT LOVED. Controlling dominating mothers are best at lighting this bombs first fuse and suppyling the supporting emotional juice for this survival struggle which to all of us eventually to let go of and look within so to the find what's really cooking, HEY finally never mind the dark, its there all right, could span several life times wishing complaining blaming even killing a favorite dark to clear your way to Nirvana. At some place we hedged, jumped into various taxis started the meter running and ordered the 'driver' to take us home. My bad? YES! So what, how else I'm gonna learn 'not this'. Are there scandalous taxi drivers. Blue bird blue. Lazy heart, all ya do is moan- wishing ya had a better part and a face shone like chrome. Hello my names Eric I sell chrome shiner, why I'll be jimmied Ma another chrome shine huckster, gads! seems their all over the place these days. I found a not this once, hey ma lookie here another not this, DANG. No fleeing is final as no life is.
some let not this go soon
some wait unit almost noon
slightly mentioned yet of sufficient merit in which to turn a pen upon is; "and their coming for state and provintial government." for which the energy of; "enough of this rant" could be of far greater service than a lingering in your not this to the not this like the growing acceptance of inevitable (talk about giving your so precious power away) dictatorial rationals of big taxi driver. Hey Jess, loves to ya. I'm just scat bumping alone taking what I need and findind it somewhat easier to leave the rest behind.