Happy Solstice! Blowing Dandelions at Ahriman

Puff to remove the Anglo-American Ruling Classes

Dandelion at dawn on Solstice. All Creation is here. Feel the love.

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Who Apes The Man Must Shape His Fall

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Two methane molecules once blindly met,

and over slime and primal soup they dined.

There was that spark, the blinding type you get

on dates. Oh wow. They started humankind.

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A ruse of Ahriman, a tale that rapes

the soul, a story spirit cannot sing,

for Man was called from angels, not from apes,

shapeshifting quarks or atoms on a fling.

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Delusional are they who push such schemes

and pitch survival’s only fittest find

is DNA. Dream on. But know these dreams

hold power for the future of mankind.

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Believe such schemes and in exact reverse

you will descend—to apes, pigs, worms and worse.

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Greetings y Saludos

Happy Summer Solstice.

Good news from the Fearless Arts Café. Hamlet is our new dishwasher. He is very proficient with his ‘Tis thought that makes it so, which is how he gets the Ponoquarium of Spectacular Evil to be so clean after we’ve had General Pinochet, Fauci, Dick Cheney or some other execrable ghoul sloshing around in our Cup of Knowing. I’ll explain more about this in a later stack.

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I made sure to go on my dawn walk this special summer morning. It feels good to catch the longest day of the year as it has hardly yet begun. I get my stride and I lose myself in Nature. As I’m walking down the stretch of heath and rock between the pines just after turning left on the Mount Tam Trail, I’m deep in thought: should I get back to Ahriman and the possible Viking-Norman lineage and contrast it with what looks like a Sorath lineage dating back to the Canaanite Baal worship rites, and does this lineage evolve and relocate to Klingsor in Sicily, and if so—cut

Stop. Look.

My eyes have been pulled away. Out of time, out of thought. Something wants my attention.

I’m staring at a glow that emerges out of some deep past. My eyes adjust. The glow is soft and smooth; outwardly cool, with a faint bluish tinge. The cool light feels ancient. I stare with the wonder of a child, trying not to define or presuppose, but to simply be, and let curious wonder wander where it may in the early dawn magic of the watershed trail. I’m gazing at a sliver moonglow in the grass, translucent, seemingly possessed of some inner source, because the not-yet-morning is too dark to light anything up properly. Lost in reverie, I am looking at the daughter of the moon, a beautiful and ethereal fairy, lighting up the field with faint rays of primal knowing.

But beautiful mind can wait no longer. I’m rational after all. Mind wants a word. Mind wants to name things.

It’s a dandelion.

And I am being called by Dessa* Dandy.

She loves me, she loves me not. She loves me, she loves me not. How often have I asked for love advice when I was a young child playing in the garden? I squat down and look close at the uncanny silver light.

With respect to Chartres, the Taj Mahal, the Temple of Luxor, the Colosseum and all the gorgeous wonders of human civilisation, right now I feel I’m in the point-of-presence of something that even Hiram Abiff could not conjure up out of the substance of our earth, or even a sea of molten glass. There in front of me, small, humble and blissfully present as pure moment, an ethereal night-bulb full of stored moon-magic is able to condense the enormity of human creation into a small glowing orb. And as I look around there are dozens of little globes, quietly absorbing space as if to calm the Nagual for the coming day.

I feel the out-thrusting power of love, a joy that must push itself all over the rolling hills of the Tamalpais watershed, and from there into the endless vistas of the firmament.

How can such delicacy contain the strength of the universe?

A faint breeze lifts one umbrella-fairy wisp out of the orb and up into the dawn air.

So small, so delicate, this tiny fluff point of stalk and seed, so calm, so nonchalantly business-as-usual, so inconsequential and yet so magnificent to my stunned and marvelling eyes that I gasp, breathless as I watch the little floret-fleece of nature’s glory setting off on the smallest puff of breeze.

I revere the awesome profligacy of Mother Nature. Her courage. And her love.

A weightless puff-piece of pure defiance is setting out on a journey, with nothing more than the wind to guide her. To float, to hover and to zig-zag like a butterfly to wherever the wind takes her, trusting in the wind, trusting that the wind knows better than she, trusting that no matter what, she is future, she is fairy-knowing, she is Dandy of the Lion, she is gorgeous, sweet perfection trusting that she doesn’t have to care, knowing that she was woven from loom of Dessa Persephone, trusting that she is beautiful and that she is important, that she is seed and that seed is her mission and that her mission is life, trusting that even if she lands on a parched rock she will still be full of joy, trusting that no matter what she is powerful, because she is nature, she is Persephone, she is the puff of life and she will not make even the smallest tremble in the morning breeze that the Lord knoweth not.

Sweet dawn perfection, is anything better than this?

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~~oo~~OO~~OO~~OO~~oo~~

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Now read Who Apes the Man Must Shape his Fall once more. Your guardian angel wants to hear it again. Read it out loud, slowly, savouring every word. I’ve said before that Revolution lives in great poetry. I do my best to make my words breathe. Ask your guardian angel.

I have often said that we should think like a rainforest, because this is where poetry comes alive. Imagine a living, breathing, love-jungle full of hummingbirds, parakeets and quetzals flashing from tree to tree as they preen and flaunt in all the dazzling colours of creation. In the empyrean, these are poem-birds and a good poem is a fabulously coloured bird flying to its source in the Logos.

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Creation lives in the sonnet even as it speaks of the death of creation, the death of spirit of those who look into the loom of Persephone glowing in the puff of Dandy flight and call it nothing but an accident, a selfish gene that only wants to survive, so it can propagate another selfish gene, that only wants to survive, so that it can propagate another selfish gene, that only wants to survive, survive, survive and end up propagating another selfish Yuval Noah hacked-animal Harari, another I’m-falling-in-love-with-a-computer Sir Richard Dawkins, another Ray Singularity Kurzweil and another hundred Silicon tech billionaires who want to cover the earth with star-blocking satellites, cover Mother Gaia with I-destroying eye-recognition spy devices for I-Spider Ahriman and his world-wide I-Spider capture of a billion useless-breathers reduced by social-credit algorithms to eighteen digit data-points in a life-sucking, overheating Utah mainframe facility where whirling dervish once-were-human nano-bots get sucked down into the cold, cold, sub zero world of the Eighth Sphere.

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New naming is all part of living in the Great Rainforest of Creation. A few weeks ago I invented La Grandeur. More evocative than Cosmos, this picture of endless creation is a beauty-word designed to conjure up everything the lives in the world beyond the senses. Roll the word around your tongue and see if it doesn’t bring a warm feeling in your belly. Try it. La Grandeur is a living word. I hope to see it flying in the emerald rainforest one day, because the tiny little seed-fluff that Dessa Dandy made me stop for this morning is shot through with the sublime immensity of La Grandeur.

Those who are incapable of seeing divine Grandeur are the enemy of evolution.

I have to state the facts plainly. Unless we bring about Brevolution, these kind, nice, warm hearted, pet loving people who insist that human beings are nothing more than random acts of chance, fucking molecules and selfish gene survival will drag the earth into the abyss of the Eighth Sphere.

In the heart of any real human being there can be no doubt that the tiniest little blossom of living green is the result of an awesome act of divine love. This morning’s dandelion came off the loom of Dessa Persephone. You may use a different name but there is no other explanation. There is some divine angelic force that brings Nature into existence.

Which brings us to the question? Who are these ghouls that see nothing but chance, rolling dice and random collisions as the source of life? Yuval Noah Harari seems like a nice guy when you hear him speak, but whom does he serve? Who sucks his spirit out when he sleeps at night?

Go back to the sonnet. For we wrestle not against flesh and blood. The name of the Prince of Darkness is written there.

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~~oo~~OO~~OO~~OO~~oo~~

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What else did Dessa Dandelion teach me this morning?

I am as small as the little puff of dandelion seed floating off into the dawn mist.

That is all I need to be in order to tell you that, in my estimation, the Kionist Manifesto is the only way to bring about world change, a change that goes through Brevolution to Grenaissance and La Bella Futura.

It’s a small little seed. It just needs to land in fertile soil.

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I will end with the method. It’s very simple.

But first. What I am about to tell you will have Marxists, socialists, educated liberals, intellectuals, academics, activists and even some in the Truth Movement rolling in the aisles. What? Are you serious? A breath? A puff? This Kionist Manifesto is fluff, cloud-cuckoo, the stuff of fancy and delusion. It’s pure madness!

Think carefully about this. Who knows, perhaps it is mad. The decision is yours.

But in my view, this is how we achieve victory. On one fine summer’s day, the glorious day of Brevolution when we are a million strong, we will remove the Anglo-American Ruling Classes by simply using our breath.

We will all go out into the garden and pick a dandelion.

With joy and Fiery Knowing in our heart, we will hold up the dandelion and puff, puff, puff and blow it at those nasty people in the Anglo-American Ruling Classes.

And hey presto! They all disappear!

Finally we get the commons back. And a future where we can all fall in love again.

It’s that simple. If you’re in doubt, ask Hamlet.

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Dandy, Dandy

glowing bright

in the moonbeams of the night

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what dawn hands

what dawn feet

dare tame

thy breathless poetry?

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Love and blessings to you all

Steve

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PS.

Glossary: Dessa means Goddess in Kionspeak.

I started this on solstice day but it got delayed.

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~~oo~~OO~~OO~~OO~~oo~~

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