Each one of us matters in a Democracy. With a voice in government, an ordinary individual can take a stand on behalf of our local communities, our country and all womankind, mankind, and kindness itself. Kindness is a word that implies we are all kin, all alike in some way, and all related. You are my family. Our taxes go to crooks; politicians make fools of us; and your kids die in their wars of aggression. I personally will fight to the death for our human rights and our Democracy.
I’m cheating: I was born an altruist. My Republican parents tried to insult me by calling me a “born Democrat” because I always put the underdog first. At my birth, the Titanic was not a completely archaic memory and it was culturally correct to say, “Women and children first.” Phenomena like “widows and orphans charities” were accepted as life-savers for the most vulnerable casualties of fate. Now we’re aware of the drawbacks of a “victim mentality” but I still cherish what sets females and kids apart. Picture an infant suckling at a warm bosom and tell me the head bobbing on that spindly neck isn’t sacred in its frailty. That vulnerability is only strengthened when it’s attacked, at least on the archetypal plane: femininity is soft, not armored; gentle, not brute; emotional, not robotic; and caring, not cold.
Tenderness is feeble as a fad. Pity rarely pays the bills. Yet worship of the Madonna may be profitably exploited in some corners to prey on atavistic longings for Mother. Hindus have a benign version, with sacred cows strolling through city traffic in India, their milk revered as symbol of life itself. Of course I respect that (and love chai). What I want to turn a spotlight on here is a perverted version of maternal love that has helped destroy Democracy.
I stumbled on it by accident. I attend personal-growth events that release inhibitions. So I went to a “drumming and dance” workshop where beautiful frame drums were for sale. We were taught rudiments of a Tarantella. The instructor was distracted with seasonal allergies but I had fun. Having loved drumming and playing African djembe for years, I was intrigued by a new way to use my hands. The woman’s percussion technique could be learned at a week-long retreat in Italy (she announced between sneezes). She herself was Sicilian or thereabouts, from somewhere on the sole of the ancient Roman boot. Mafia thugs are still common down there but the retreat would be safely up in Tuscany.
I was commencing my second divorce. I decided to make myself scarce while my husband came to terms with his accomplishments. As a good wife, I belly danced in public to maintain his affections. But he frequented strip clubs from the day I’d met him, a fact that may account for his being an inert audience in bed. He was a history major and I’d been enthralled by his grasp of dramatic events of the past. Our future, however, became a null.
So I signed up to transition in Europe. I bought a hostel membership and six-week Eurail pass that I planned to use after Tuscany. I had lugged heavy baggage through Europe before: burned in my memory was my English mother nagging me along a Swiss back road to some quaint B&B near Montreux, our suitcases dragging my chubby teenage arms like snagged anchors. So this time, I fitted everything I’d need into one nifty overnight-sized backpack with wheels. I’d wash clothes by hand every night. I’d even give things away as I went along. The most precious gift would be my used copy of Confederacy of Dunces. Though one of my favorite books, I hadn’t read that novel for a decade or more. The protagonist Ignatius would be a comedic companion for my foray into the future of whoever I was becoming.
One improvement: I had to get serious about avoiding gluten. Wheat gave me a sort of hay fever. Fortunately the Tarantella retreat would be at an organic farmhouse resort that accommodated special diets. So I requested a simple bowl of rice whenever the meals were gluten-based. “Please don’t go to any bother!” I had to get used to a bland diet if I wanted to get healthy.
Long story short, I found myself in a remote location in the Tuscan hills where I was declared impossibly demanding by a group of twenty ~ by best estimation ~ witches. Rice wasn’t my only offense. Having invested in a week to learn the complicated hand-drumming technique, I made the mistake of complaining that there was no drum available for me to buy or practice on. Ironically requiring white dresses, swaying in a circle, the “Tarantella” turned out to be an excuse for public orgasms: the dancer in the center spasmed in crab position like a spider, hence the tarantella from the Italian for tarantula. She’d thrust her pubis to the sky while the Italian woman tried to drum us all into a trance. The ruse is it releases our "true nature." I enjoy sexuality but would like to draw attention to the side effects of that frenzied display. Those creatures swarmed to excoriate me for my bowl of rice. I shouldn’t have assumed a drum would be available for me to learn drumming at a drumming workshop but I didn’t need twenty people ganging up on me. I’m small, squeaky, altruistic, and smile even while getting divorced.
|The Bush/Clinton cabal is well documented|
The Italian woman – whose name sounded like Baloney – turned out to be a cult figure. One of her adherents snarled at me, “You knew this workshop was for the Black Madonna! What did you expect?” I had barely been aware of the Black Madonna and had no idea the retreat was for witches only. I thought blackness was just a symbol of racial inclusivity. I had no inkling that the aim of the workshop wasn’t drumming or dancing but rather the cultivation of an us-versus-them viciousness.
I think the retreat started on a Monday and by Thursday, I felt threatened and possibly in peril from the other (in my eyes) increasingly hysterical participants. (Not helping: Baloney’s sidekick was a shaman from Brazil.) The schedule that Thursday evening was a group discussion in the rustic resort’s large lounge. While the Tarantella teacher held court, I mentioned defensively that I’d attended several “ecstatic dance” events in California as well as Oregon.
The cult leader sneered, “All those California people are just fakes.”
I was astounded at her generalization, needless to say. Although the crowd of almost two dozen were nodding obediently, I decided not to be silenced. I hastened to comment that I’d traveled to Europe in part to connect spiritually with my murdered Jewish relatives. “I heard that the director of “Life is Beautiful” lives nearby in Florence! I love that movie. Before I saw that film, I didn’t know Jews were killed in Italy.”
The cult leader was an old woman with long stringy black hair and big, dark eyes lined with kohl. She wore elegant gypsy clothes. I might not have a prejudice against stereotypical witches if that woman hadn’t snapped back at me, “NO Jews were killed in Italy!” Do you question that she would claim anything so ignorant? Let me add now that she also said 9/11 was deserved.
Innocent victims? Hello? This was 2002 and the cult leader reportedly not only lived in Manhattan but had a position at the Cathedral of St John the Divine!
I’d figured out that the blackness of that cult’s Madonna referred to what was hidden, nocturnal and sneaky. It was too late to leave that night but I slept with one eye open – my Vietnamese roommate masturbating loudly, by the way – and arranged a ride to the bus stop the next day. I thanked the gracious cooks and other charming farmhouse staff (the manager gave me a knowing look.) My white lace dress I left for the sweet Italian chambermaid. (I’ve learned subsequently that the white clothing is required for ritually staining with blood.)
I’d read most of Confederacy of Dunces at that point, feet up in the lounge. My giggling at its humor no doubt annoyed the hostile cult surrounding me. I decided to rip off the last forty pages or so that I had yet to read, offering the bulk of the book to whoever wanted a delightful experience. The witches expressed their disgust. “How dare you destroy a book like that?!”
“I got it for a dollar at a thrift store. It’s just too heavy for me to carry around. If you don’t want it, I guess I’ll throw it away.” I didn’t tell the tarantula harpies that the protagonist Ignatius had loomed like a guardian angel for me all that week, protecting me from their toxic bites.
When I returned home from Europe, I finally researched the Black Madonna. In my view, it’s a perversion of eco-feminism. By exalting a leader, any cult is anathema to Democracy; Baloney’s cult affects that you’re only worthwhile if you subscribe to a certain world view centered around your genitals and your membership in a crowd that engulfs you like a uterus. The warmth you find within a cult will turn to hatred the minute you’re not “in.”
Have you read Confederacy of Dunces? It would be too academic of me to contrast Ignatius to the deviousness of witchcraft: he’s intellectual, bumbling, idealistic, and defers to the Wheel of Fortune. You can read on the very first page the simple truth that he’s one person, standing alone. I do subscribe to his sentiment of “Workers of the world, unite!” That refers to people joining to create a better world. It doesn’t mean crawling into the womb-like influence of a charismatic sociopath who appeals to your base appetites as the basis for belonging. She promises you power while robbing you of true potency. Incantations and tricks to impose your will may build an illusion of control over life but are the opposite of God’s grace. No matter how much the spineless and craven may boost their egos by identifying with such a beast, what good is an ego with fake individuality anyway? Satanists and their handlers love creating a mob mentality to degrade people and drag us to their level.
|Judge this by its cover|
Here’s a thought experiment about objects: if our spirits were something inhuman, what would we be? I might be a treebark-bound book about courage, love and wit. The Tarantula cult would be spiders focused on fornication and biting.
When I arrived at the retreat, of course I tried to spark a friendship with individuals, for instance the Norwegian headache sufferer to whom I gave a massage. I’m grateful to those novices for showing me what a person is like before they fall completely under the sway of a cult leader. The satanic cults that the CIA has fomented since the 1960s serve to attack and sometimes murder anyone who crosses our ruling cabal. The Brazilian man and the twenty women I met in Tuscany are representative faces now when I am in a crowd and wonder, “Which of these normal-looking people may be programmed to harm me?” I feel less fear than pity and disgust.
I’m helping eyewitness victims expose crimes of our Luciferian elites. I hope you join me. But I’m not waiting for either followers or leaders. To me, Democracy means that each one of us has something to offer humanity that is sacred. We’re each a seed growing on our mother Earth. Our souls are the fruit.