Toronto sky in the rain, a moody dark grey and heavy hanging. Looks like cat fur covering the sky, you could stroke it and feel the warmth of a living thing. A stripe of orange where the sun goes down. Slick weather so the tarmac is full of lights in many colours.
Im looking and seeing everyone around me. Rare these days to be surrounded by so many others. I breathe into them and turn a particular filter on so my vision looks in wonder at their beings and their bodies and their sexuality, still available to them, still distinct and defined. Changing the filter and peering into a future. I see a different people robbed of their sexuality, mutilated by Wokedom so they are never able to know and feel and express the energies of oneness and dying that sexuality communicates, what merges two bodies, two beings, and releases the spring of mortal terror into bliss. There will be no more of that. The new generation of unpeople will have no physical place for the energy of sexuality to move. The body meridians sliced through with sterilizing surgeries, and the perfect feedback loops of human hormones overridden with coarse doses of pharmaceutical grades.
Hemingway wrote about a war victim losing his penis. He imagined what it would be like for a young man, still with the urge of lifes seed but no delivery system. That was a different war. Now our bodies have become the battlefield. The new war is still waged by old guys with ludicrous amounts of money and still aimed at destroying life but the exigencies of an external battlefield are gone, whatever that frightful courageous cutting edge aliveness is that warriors lust after, thats going away.
There was a perfect moment in the plane. My nose over a paper cup that was doubled to handle hot steaming water. My hat brim tilted low and the steam rising up to soothe and moisten my eyes, enter my nose and humidify what dries out so quickly in that closed environment. A music app and headset is playing La pas du chat noir directly into my brain. Slow moving piano and slower moving aud and Im filled out completely with grief, that horrible human sensation of loss and Im believing it is the loss of life as we have known it filling me out to a sensation-filled edge, eased with steam and melancholic music. Then the conscious mind rushes in to distract itself from the depth of that perfect experience. I recall Mahers brilliant joke about wanting to be a pirate when he was a kid and fortunately no one took him in for peg leg surgery and eye removal and I realize the joke isnt funny anymore. Its gotten too close to the truth, that fine line that comedy must contend with. I wonder about Bill, if hes smoking too much pot and getting paranoid, thinking, god, dont cancel me.
I know I dont know that any of this is actually happening, that world war three is being fought inside our bodies with gender modification and experimental gene therapies. I do feel almost sure that world war three has been slowly happening throughout my lifetime, from my narrow perspective entirely on TV. Now this weird turn from an exterior combat zone to an interior conflict, as if humans didnt have enough of that already. If we could be given half a chance to sort out what we really are before creating another thing! One aspect of our natures is clear. We are always craving for more and easily seduced by superhuman possibilities. Like the Penismind Master who appeared to be a kind of transhuman, alleged to have arrived there through spiritual transmogrification.
Its difficult to sort out whats true and false after so many years of living in a false culture, a system that was designed and implemented to serve one master. One direction out of the charade is through the physical body, what the gut can say, and what the hearts rhythm knows. Even if its not world war three, the interference with peoples natural internal workings definitely ups the ante on discovering what is actually true, and then staying true once known. Still possible. Way more difficult. Maybe that is a hidden meaning of human evolution, creating evermore difficulty to surmount.
As one actual superhuman said, Times are uncertain and the outcome is sure to be ironic.
Written on the plane? Not surprising, but I didn't guess you could be even more self expressed.
Something about being so high above the din of humanity is clarifying and surely the sages of old knew the effect up on the mountain tops. As I gaze at your chart, it seems to be singing to me, who you are; as does your Cultura cura. Thank you for your enchanting Song, Dear friend.