Ides of March 2022
The operative words for any half-baked answer to the flying flambé question about what the heck is going on — anywhere — is:
Blowing in the wind.
My question of late is:
What do I do while I’m waiting to do what I need/want to do?
It’s a question I’ve had to contend with — all of my life. And, somehow, for whatever unrealistic reason, I’d gotten to a point in my life where I’d believed that my forward motion was forward.
Full steam ahead!
Oh, the steam has to be electric.
No, the steam has to be wind-driven.
Nope, the steam has to be solar-powered.
And, above all else in this mad, mad, mad, mad world, the eco-steam must be safety-approved.
The steam, therefore, must be subsidized by the taxpayer, and by the eternally-efficient energy companies. The steam must then be imported from Chi-na, and from other D.C. swamp-approved enemies of America, and then Congressionally approved by the Ugly American Oligarchs who run Congress (and whose names we do not yet know).
This type of limitation does not rest well with me. I do not like roadblocks. I tend to smash through them. Although, I must admit that my superior brainpower knows better than to try the type of frontal assault that has eviscerated the Muckraker Media who are doing all the mucking, whilst We the Patriots get raked over the coals by the Clowns-in-Public-Office.
This morning, I awoke to a rainy day with the inner directive to look up the definitions of “substrate” and “catalyst”. I already know that a substrate is the material in which a chemical reaction occurs, and the catalyst is what helps cause that reaction to occur. I wanted more precise definitions. I therefore went to my hard-bound, unabridged dictionary-book (because the online p.c.-palaver is pathetic).
Substrate: The substance that is acted upon by the catalyst.
Catalyst: A substance which either speeds up, or slows down, a chemical reaction, but which in itself undergoes no permanent change.
Yes! The catalyst exits unscathed from whatever horrendous process it undergoes.
Catalyst as role model!!
The substrate is the starting point in life. I will not even contemplate the reagent role in life. A reagent does not act alone: it needs something else to perform optimally. (Sounds like love to me.)
I need to get newer substrates and newer catalysts. And they are not out there in Fake World, or in Fake News.
This quest might take a while! The goals may, of necessity, be of my invention.
Wherever my search leads me, however, that discovery phase shall occur in the private domain, the intimate sphere that protects itself from the Prying Lying Eyes that do not snoop on their guests.
It’s become clear to me that the world out there is a public show of idiots. Those moral cretins and lazy narcissists on display somehow believe they must keep up the pretense of keeping up a pretense.
Why bother?
It’s all such a waste of energy. Although true energy is not wasted; it’s neither created or destroyed. Energy simply (which may not be easy) changes form.
As to the entire sham-concept of green energy, I’ve been hearing it since my childhood which, not to give my age away (and that preciosity is a real word for something that cannot be given away either), was in the 1970’s.
Ergo, 50 years later, we Americans are in the greedy grips of Jimmy Carter and his mean streak to the 10th degree. Jimmeh, the nuclear engineer, was anal compulsive about everything. I won’t comment about certain anatomical malfunctions in the faux-WH, but We The People are presently trying to not watch one huge s—show.
This circumstance is what I mean about needing to find new substrates and new catalysts. The search shall be intriguing! I believe that music, good music, melodious music must be the base for the substrate.
May the catalysts abound!
Meanwhile, the words of Shakespeare must suffice to summarize the pawns, perverts, liars, and nutcases rushing out their propaganda to try to fool . . . themselves.
The operative word here is a profanity, but since this entire government farce is based on the substrate of profanity, that logical connection is consistent. (Garbage in, garbage out, GIGO for the geniuses who can’t let go of their phony fame.)
The blood is on the hands of the traitors in our nation, and in the nations outside of our blessed land. The hemorrhaging is a global phenomenon!
Methinks the “Out, damned spot, Out, I say!” commands of Lady Macbeth are taking on the forms of ghostly podcasts and rubber-stamped executive orders. Those stage-directions, from yet another rewrite of The Dashed-Off Script, are designed to divert attention away from the debacle of Scam Government.
That bloody spot just keeps spreading, from kleptocrat to kleptocrat, from biolab to biolab, from continent to continent, from multinational to multinational, from corporately spawned crisis to corporately spawned crisis, from virus to virus, from polluted sea to shining sea, from shining sea to eco-bucks territory, from famine to famine, from flu to flu, from ague to ague, from betrayal to betrayal, from self-righteous power grab to self-loathing back-stab.
I fully concur with the diagnosis of the good Shakespearean doctor who takes a good gander at the non-Lady. Like any good M.D., he, gulp, honestly admits:
“This disease is beyond my practise.”
Yes, the Bard got this one right. Blowing in the wind — in Scotland, in England, in Europe, in America, in any country bedeviled by the gluttonous globalists and their con-men and con-women at the public trough:
“Foul whisperings are abroad: unnatural deeds
Do breed unnatural troubles; infected minds
To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets:
More needs she the divine than the physician.”
I quoth Macbeth, who would have died anyway too!
Macbeth
Act 5, Scene 5
Enter Macbeth, Seyton, and Soldiers, with Drum and Colors
Macbeth: Hang out our banners on the outward walls.
The cry is still, “They come!” Our castle’s strength
Will laugh a siege to scorn; here let them lie
Till famine and the ague eat them up.
Were they not forc’d with those that should be ours,
We might have met them dareful, beard to beard,
And beat them backward home.
A cry within of women.
What is that noise?
Seyton: It is the cry of women, my good lord. [Exit.]
Macbeth: I have almost forgot the taste of fears.
The time has been, my senses would have cool’d
To hear a night-shriek, and my fell of hair
Would at a dismal treatise rouse and stir
As life were in’t. I have supp’d full with horrors;
Direness, familiar to my slaughterous thoughts,
Cannot once start me.
[Enter Seyton.]
Wherefore was that cry.
Seyton: The Queen, my lord, is dead.
Macbeth: She should have died hereafter;
There would have been a time for such a word.
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.