20 May 2022
The Throat of Reality
This morning, I typed a summary of the historic hysterics of the U.S. Stock Market as those financial tickers roller-coasted to a flatline from the past year of their inevitable domino-effect ride.
That money-trip follows the idiot-curve of stupidity-after-stupidity-after-stupidity, senseless actions followed by, or even concurrent with, economic train wrecks. All of the catastrophic commotion was set into motion by the latest rounds, two years worth, of the jaw-dropping corruption and lunacy of the Banksters, the Experts, and the unofficial club foot of Government, bollixing and bungling, yet again, the economy of the United States.
I made a couple of typos that were, in fact, improvements upon the reality of the mess at hand:
the S&P 300
The throat of
The markets have dropped so much since January 2021 that the S&P 500 just might have shrunk to 300. The threat of stagflation is now in our throats, largely because of the collective gag reflex being set off in America, due to the Socialist Agenda being shoved down the throats of Americans.
The throat of reality was also the topic of the chapter I read today in a masterpiece by Alexandre Dumas.
On this momentous day, I reached the 1,000-page mark in Le Comte de Monte Cristo.
It’s been a laborious long haul since the fall of 2018. (See Mr. Magoo’s Count of Monte Cristo.)
I’m well into Volume Two, and the poisonings just keep happening!
There have, in literary fact, been so many poisonings in this plot line that I needed to take a break from them before progressing to Chapitre 80, L’Accusation. Late this afternoon, I embarked on this brief chapter which is basically an illuminating case of powerful dramatic irony. That case was tersely and forcefully unfurled by the dialogue between le médecin, Doctor d’Avrigny, and Monsieur Villefort regarding the most likely culprit of the latest fatal poisonings.
The accused is the lovely Valentine, daughter of Monsieur Villefort. This guy is starting to grab reality by the throat; it’s not a pleasant experience for him. He cannot countenance the conception that his daughter, a pure spirit of innocence — who logically and evidentially is the most likely killer — has poisoned three people!
As the chapter ends, the realization of the identity of the true murderer begins to dawn upon Villefort: his wife, and not his daughter, is the murderess. The thin smile — curling across the lips of his spouse — gives this Frenchman pause as to the treachery in his own household.
The good doctor takes his leave of this house, ostensibly forever, for such a house is a house of death. Both the doctor and Villefort seem to be blind to the events that have unfolded before their very eyes.
One passage in particular was profound enough for me to write it down:
. . . le médecin a une mission sacré sur la terre, c'est pour la remplir qu'il remonté jusqu'aux sources de la vie et descendu dans les mystérieuses ténèbres de la mort. Quand le crime a été commis et que Dieu, épouvanté sans doute, détourne son regard du criminel, c'est au médecin de dire : « Le voilà ! ».
. . . The doctor has a sacred mission on earth, it is in fulfilling it that he has gone back to the sources of life and descended into the mysterious darkness of death. When the crime has been committed and God, appalled without a doubt, turns his gaze away from the criminal, it is up to the doctor to say: "There he is!”
Upon reading those words, I thought immediately of the COVID-19 frauds with the M.D. attached to their names. I thought of how many so-called professionals within the medical profession have turned their gaze away from the patient, from the art of healing, from whatever God, or Higher Power they might acknowledge beyond the Profiteering Higher-Ups handing down the officially scripted orders.
I thought of the face of God, appalled without a doubt, turning away from those licensed quacks. I thought of the dark day, or heinous night, when the licensed physician turns to God to demand mercy, and orders, “Here I am.”
And silence is the divine response.
The throat of a fake reality thereby succumbs to the lies it has told, to the deaths it has caused, to the grievous sorrows that it denied even existed — for the widows and the widowers and the parents and the orphans of a fraudulent virus that robbed so much from so many; while concurrently awarding billions to the leeches upon humanity. Those men and women shall walk the earth with their riches and their fame, but never know the face of God.
There’s one reality that can’t be bought: the victims of the politicized pandemic not only know the face of their Maker; they requite the harms done by the evildoers. That timely vengeance may not arrive in the spirit of the Count of Monte Cristo, but in the spirit of the Ineffable.
For, as the Doctor d’Avrigny informs Monsieur VIllefort:
. . . lorsque le crime entre quelque part, c’est comme la mort, il n’entre pas seul.
. . . when crime enters somewhere, it is like death, it does not enter alone.