She of the West: Marian Is Moovin On Up

Hexagonal Aurora of Saturn

Barad-dur, Eye of Mordor

She’s been lookin’ like a Queen in a sailor’s dream
and she don’t always say
what she really means 

“Sundown” (G. Lightfoot)

 

We’re Movin’ on up to the East Side
to that deluxe apartment in the sky
yeah we’re movin’ on up to the East Side
 we finally got a piece of the pie

(theme from “The Jefferson,” a seventies TaVi Program)

 

It’s 1961, the third day in the month of God Augustus, and you’re part of an ancient, ultrasecret consortium of technosorcerers.

Shit even you don’t know you exist.

In intimate conservation of all the major Mystery Traditions and Empire Systems, as liquid with Paleoshamanic technique as with modern keyword implantation, you are preparing to reap the benefits of centuries of intricate planning and execution.

You specialize in Chaldeo-Egpytian magick  Trauma, fear, libidic manipulation, chemicals, bondage, psychospiitual slavery.  You gaze from your Tower over your city of Chicago, casting your eye Midwestward to Farwestward, to the Ends of the Earth, and smiling a cool, lopsided smile.

The Wounded Head Sacrifice, the Catholic Ram, has just taken office, and the nation is lulled with optimism, with post-war largesse.  Americans want no more trauma.  They mow their ridiculous lawns three times a week and paint everything white.

When the time and place accord, the Sacrificed King will be manouvered toward the Triple Underpass and onto the black square at Dea/ley Plaza, hard by the Trinity River, its floods fertilie as the Nile, predictable as menses.  Latline 33 stretches from the Sacrificial Site straight across to Charleston, South Carolina, home-port of U.S. masonry.  No NRG wastage.  Pure rocket fuel.

In Pallas Dallas, State of the penta-star, the white Sun King will die by Three “unworthy” Craftsmen, his blood offered to the Almighty Goddess and her Homeland that was, is, and is to be.

You savor the three months until 11\22, the Why more than the How.  The shattered Dreaming Mind.  The inevitability, the prognostic sweetness of the Death Blow, beamed around the planet, a horrifying old thrill.  At profit!  The Ancient Rite, the Ancient Audience.

You dismiss your servants and let the sherry breathe, part the blinds to the sinking red ball.  Whoever said “It is good to be King” was a fool.  The King is a Fool: always the object, never the subject.

Tomorrow Scarab Pharaoh will be born at the Kapi’olani Medical Center for Women and Children, and you will fly to Hawaii with gifts for the Childe and Mother.  Not to get them started on their way.  To keep them on yours.

You snatch a copy of the Sun-Times from your desk.  Full of blabber about that meathead, Kennedy. 

You contemplate the Work, the millennia of execution, your coming trip to the Holy Islands, Realm of the Dead on Earth.  Already the vision shapes up, the sparkle sands off the Pacific, the whuff of the Mother’s deep and heavy breaths, and you by Pharaoh’s side, helping the little dark sun rise from his crib and learn the ways of night.  The Childe is called Barack, a lightning fall.

_____________________

To the Egyptians, west was a direction linked to death. Amentet was also the name of the underworld – the place where Ra traveled during the night. The place where the sun set was also called by this name, being the entrance to the land of the dead according to Egyptian belief. Amentet – ‘She of the West’ – was therefore the goddess of not only the land of the dead, but also of the entry to the underworld, and of the west itself.

(“Amentet, Goddess of the Dead, Personification of the West” by Caroline Seawright) 

 

“Seawright”?  Hoo baby, and we’re Off.

Walking Like An Egyptian, then: the West both symbolically and geophysically equals the goddess Amentet, the portal of the West, and westness itself.  Amen (Amun, Amon, Ammon) could translate either as spouse of the “divine mother,” or the mother herself.  Tet is a ubiquitous Egyptian concept and technology utilizing a pillar or pillars, libido, and anitpodal magick, roughly representing stability, in fertility especially.  Tet appears frequently in Qim Tunes in varied contexts.

Hawai’i means Homeland.  Wikipedia:

Elsewhere in Polynesia, Hawaiʻi or a cognate is the name of the underworld or of the ancestral home, but in Hawaiʻi the name has no meaning.

Gee.  Just when we were starting to sleep at night.

Dig that the native Hawai’ians don’t consider their archipelagic Homeland as the Underworld.  All the neighbors do, though!

To the Hawai’ians, their Deathland is just another day in Paradice.

It doesn’t really matter what they believe.  As usual, they believe what they’re told, what’s comfortable to believe.  They provide a Reliable Consensus for the Hand’s interests.  And it is that Hand of our friend above that counts, plotting the tessellates, skidding pieces across Gameboard Earth.

Sol niger is birthed in the island necropolis of the Uttermost West, in the Land of Death.  At last Pharaoh returns from the nigredic constellations.  The uroboric tail is chomped, a major line of the Great Ceremony is capped.

In a little over three months, Sol albatus will sprawl in the back of a black limosine, gurgling like a baby as the blood — the lovely, living blood — splatters across the Queen of Heaven’s dress.

These things must be done deeel-i-cat-ly.

Meanwhile in Chicago (later re-named Obamaland! we hope!)  the Sun-Times newspaper occupies what this page’s commenter calls a “squat, barge-like building.”  Barges or barques were prominent Egyptian representations of transport between the Lands of Life and Death, between Earth and Heaven for resurrection, and between Heaven and Earth for re-incarnation.  Barack = barque (bark).

Two months before 9-11, Donald Trump and the (cough cough ahem) “parent company” of the Chicago Sun-Times announced plans to construct the massive Trump Tower Chicago on the old site of the newspaper’s headquarters.  The old Solar Barque is razed, the phallus of the new Sun rises, all phallic phoenix-y, from its ashes.  Straight-up as the longdong of Osiris.  Favorite-son Barack, returning on his solar bark.

 

 Black Obamonolith (l) reflected and doubled in Trump Tower Chicago (r) *

* Photo awarded expressly to Da Black Whole by THE DONALD.  Any other use of photo by you scumbags constitutes Infringement, handled by THE DONALD’S war consigliare, Hectorus Batus.  We Care About You.  Don’t Get Prosecuted.  In fact, don’t even fuckin’ look at the photo again.

 

In the Barque, Isis and Nephthys embrace the sun in the form of a souring scarab beetle, as he pushes the sun disk toward the sky goddess Nut. She is upside down, indicating the inversion of the sun’s course, which will once again run in the opposite direction from its course through the netherworld which is here the embodiment of Osiris. He surrounds this dark world with his curved body.  (Source here.)

 

Last 15 August Chicago’s Trump Tower was “topped off” with its final major concrete pour.  The Tower rises under Mari(time’s) ministrations, Lake Michigan and the Chicago River close abreast.

As reported recently herein, nine days later on August 24, Barack Obama stood beneath the Goddess’ Victory Column in Berlin and called for Global Unity.

 

Scarab Barack and Victoria, ”Victory of the Left-Hand Path” (illustration via Konkrete Junkyard)

 

Yesterday, l.d. watched on Teevee as his Beloved Beavers whooped the Kalifornia Golden Bears.  During the last outing, new Oregon State University basketball coach Craig Robinson was interviewed at field-level on the sidelines.  The University recently changed its logo from OSU to OS.

Yesterday, the Coach was movin’ on Up, being interviewed at length in the Press Box atop juju-palindromic RESER Stadium.  Press Boxes typically are long and squat, barge-like, perched like solar-boats at the very top of football stadia.  Boxes evoke Egyptian barqes and the Hebrew ark.

 

Reser Stadium (the row of Press Boxes is in the shade, just under the overhang)

 

Michelle Obama’s brother, Head Coach Robinson, rides Pharaoh’s Wife from relative obscurity to major NCAA status.  Last week he’s on the field (tessellate Earth); this week he’s Upstairs, with Pharaoh in the celestial barque, the Press Box.  The White House.

Michelle’s recently taken to referring to herself as “The Mom-in-Chief.”

Isn’t that inspiring.

Coach OS’s mom, Maid Marian Robinson, “shaped” Malia and Sasha while Pharaoh and Pharaoh’s Wife were busy Tourin . . . ah Campaigning.

We wonder if Dad has “scoped out” the darlings’ bedrooms again?

Conveniently, the same week we learn of Sissy Michelle’s “persuasion” of grandma (krone) Marian Robinson to Go-To-Washington “as America’s next First Family prepares for the ultimate domestic makeover.”

Domestic Makeover?  It’s not a Nation, it’s a god-damned Game Show.  Barge Barf!  Femspeak for Krone, Mother, and co-Nymphs at the heart of the sole United States District specifically consecrated to goddess Columbia.

The American Matriarchy is lifting her Veil and dropping her pants.  

It’s a New Age.  Her Age.  So we’re assured.

Oh, certainly the Token Male will “preside” over the White House and country.  We suppose Barack is anatomically male.  Masculine? . . .  perhaps in some vague and indefinable way.  Possibly in the dictionary sense . . . plays basketaball and . . . uh . . . .  

Barack looks and acts like a guy raised and dominated by women.  Talks a lot.  Smooth, plastic, weak.

We’re prepared for GranMama Marian Robinson’s brand of New Honesty when The Medea somehow got wind that Granny – Beverly Hillbillies anyone? — initially Refused to Move on grounds that at the 132-room White House “there wasn’t enough space.”

All three elements of the feminine triad under the greatest roof of power on Earth. 

This isn’t Barack’s show.  He’s just For Show.

This act belongs to the females, to the Robinson clan.  That’s where the uh cranial anomaly was found — in Head Coach Craig, the gens bloodline.

The recurring Masonic visual motif of the checkerboard/chessboard, simultaneously disorienting and confining (like everything in OS/OZ) captures the Robinson/Obama paradigm.

 

 

 

 

  

 

 The symbolism and graphic effect of the Tracing Boards are subtile.  Colorful, inviting, attractively Mystical.  The viewer is led to agree that the situations, articles, and figures inhabit Oz — a dream-world, a fantasy realm of unreality, of mere game and gaming.

But these operations are not games.  Sorcery is blood-magic.  Murder, torture, and death are the root NRG of masonic magick.

The checkerboard is deceptive.  The Protected Classes are (even more) elevated.  America has achieved her noble goal, the Opressor is thrown down at last, Equality is finally come.  All hail Fay-row’s Family.  Free At Last.

Yet when someone is Raised Up, somebody else must pay.

 

 

Baby P.

  

(Sorry about that one, troops.)

Our Kontrollers want us to believe that only further “intervention” from the MommyState will avoid more Baby P-s.  They lead us into the arms of CEOP.

 

Child Exploitation and Online Protection Centre — Cheops’ CEOP  (read: She Ops’ Cop)

 

But the article shows clearly that the absence of Baby P’s father permitted the torture and murder by his mother and her “friends.” 

In driving fathers out of families and males out of, well, pretty much everything . . . in supporting matriarchy, in kowtowing to our MAsonic MAsters, we are all implicit, and thus we share responsibility for what that defenseless, trusting little boy suffered.  And for what other Western kids are at this moment enduring.

Most child abuse in America is inflicted on young boys by women.  Denial of reality deepens the problem.  It can’t be addressed if woman is unflawed and incapable of insanity and malevolence.

The presence of a father — or at minimum of a caring adult male — tremendously decreases the likelihood of the most extreme forms of child abuse.

CEOP isn’t going to “protect” anyone but themselves and their bloody gynogulag.  Fathers and fatherhood are the ONLY answer to what ails (what’s left of) western civilization — and to what ails the Baby P’s who won’t make the cyberpapers.

Instead, Illinois and America are ready to electrocuff fathers on the chance that they “might be involved in a messy divorce.”

_________________

ON EDIT: This morning a relevant article by Melanie Phillips appeared in Britain’s Daily Mail.  Her points are well-taken, with two exceptions.

1) Phillips writes: Instead, ‘progressives’ claimed falsely that husbands and fathers posed the greatest risk to women and children.  Not merely Progressives, but specifically feminists and feminism, with the massive assistance of the Matriarchal States of the West.  Feminism is the foundation of the Left.  The “progressive” government, media, universities, and public supported the falsified, politicized disinformation, despite the fact that the actual statistics (i.e., the truth, which no-fucking-body is interested in anymore) have been widely available for decades and widely distributed by fathers’ groups and MRAs.   Those statistics consistently reveal that MOTHERS are by far the Number One committers of child abuse, especially serious physical abuse.  Not fathers.  Not stepfathers.  Not boyfriends.  MOTHERS.  But of course that’s impossible to mention, much less disseminate, because females are never responsible for anything bad.  Somewhere, somehow, there must be A Male at fault, and he’ll be found and prosecuted.  That is The System.  Does this mean motherhood is horrible?  No.  It means our Matriarchies are, and they will get worse.

2) The attempt by Phillips to turn the tragedy back into a left/right, progressive vs. conservative issue shows how utterly locked-in our nations are to the endless uroboros of the duad, of Dialectical Death.  We are ALL responsible for what happened, and what is still happening.  Is the (un)progressive Left primarily responsible, in a collective sense?  Absolutely.  They selfishly, smirkingly, and ignorantly insist on the conditions that make such extreme child abuse not only possible, but probable.  But the Right for 50 years has been just as male-hating and woman-worshipping as the Left.  Each “side” grovels before the Matriarchy in different ways.  Instead of solving our problems, we go round-n-round this You’re Evil/I’m Good bullshit, plugging our ears against The Other Side, while everything around us — especially love — dies.

While infant boys are tortured to death.  But hey, my Identity Politics is more important.  My gender, my race must reign supreme, and I don’t care who suffers to accomplish it.  I’ve got my career, my house, and my SUVs.   The White Male Hegemonic Patriarchy must be destroyed at all costs.

Here’s a related article by Barbara Kay concerning the standard Approved Male-Hating going on in Pallas Dallas.  The Sacrifice never stops.  You just stop looking at it.  Excerpt:

Outright expressions of hatred against men are a commonplace in our culture, especially when it emanates from the women’s shelter movement, ground zero for misandry. So prevalent is male-hostile discourse in the west that one can almost forgive the DART board for being numb to bigotry that, if expressed in the same words but directed against gays or blacks or Hispanics, would have set alarm bells ringing.

Alarm bells ringing?  Hell, they would have burned down the billboards and fired the City Council.  But male-hating is Big Business now, in all our cultures.  Has been for decades.  Tens-of-millions of ”careers” are now tied to destroying masculinity, not to mention the Psychological Fix uncounted millions get when indulging in their State Approved, State Enforced misandry. 

Under the Obama-etts, this endless War on Maleness will go off-the-charts.  They have a mandate now.  Not that anything or anybody stopped these nutcases before.

Paglia was absolutely right.  The modern westen world is a maternal psychosis.

______________________

Madonna & Child is pathological.  The West is Pharaoh’s Necropolis, his Abode of Death.  No County For Old Men, no place for any Guy:

 

Mama Don’t Preach: Madonna Lets Guy See His Boys . . . On 12 Conditions 

After weeks apart, an emotional Guy Ritchie was reunited with his sons Rocco and David at a London airport this morning.

The director’s children were back on English soil after being whisked away to the US by Madonna, who is in the throes of her Sticky and Sweet tour.

But as Guy held his two boys close for the first time in weeks, his estranged wife tightened her grip from the other side of the Atlantic.  [abridged]

 

 

Meanwhile kontrol kop Madonna — talentless and embittered at aging – wreaks havoc on maleness and delves ever deeper into the “empowering” kaballah, like some revivified Doktor Krippen.

 

 

She looks like the Queen of the Deadlands, alritee.  Like an elf in Moria.

Keep digging, you heartless pig.

Fortunately, the stagecrafted Obaminations are not without witnesses, of various background and perspective, a few of whom appear below.  Some sites carry relevant back-posts.

The Secret Sun.  See especially his “Very Sirius Election” series.

Aferrismoon.

Through the Looking Glass.

The Konkrete Junkyard.

The Newspaceman.  (Supplied the Baby P. photos.)

Sir Dole of Scum.

Fairhall’s Behemoth blogs.

 

Forget Obamascam and the NWO Shuffle, forget the Death Kultists and their lackeys.  They’ll disappear in their own artifice.

Others will live the light that lasts.

And many of them that sleep in the dust of the earth shall awake, some to everlasting life, and some to shame and everlasting contempt.

And they that be wise shall shine as the brightness of the firmament; and they that turn many to righteousness as the stars for ever and ever.

(Daniel 12: 2-3)

 

One of the strangest (and most confoozled!) of the psinauts is a self-interested fellow of epic proportion named The Blob.  In the Sixties this kid would’ve been nicknamed Groovy, ’cause with him, Everything Is.  ;O)

Having recently discussed Fight Club’s “Slide Penguin” wih a friend, Groovy promptly plops it onto his Blob.  Uncredited!  :O)

Groovy — employed by the “River Osbourne Community Center” and thus, no wonder dood – emits a Protracted Killer Penguin waveform encompassing this cosmos only.  For now. 

Eventually, and we do mean Eventually, he’s led to focus on the Dreamworks Pictures logo, a “boy” casually fishing from crescent moonseat.  Seen it a thousand times.  

 

 

This time, though, the boy is unexpectedly unseated.

  

 

 

Groovy declaims:

I make myself comfortable in Town 8 as the lights dim waiting to receive the Penguins teaching. It didn’t take long…

A tiny black flipper extends, grabbing hold of the “man on the moon”.

The boy is yanked away and beaten up! His place then taken by the four penguins who catch a fish proclaiming “Well done boys, looks like ice cold sushi for breakfast.”

Translation: “Pisces is over boys, looks like Aquarius is dawning.”

 

Christ is the “fisher of souls,” teaching for two millennia that the Kingdom is like a child’s heart.

With the heavenly “boy” finally out of the way — beaten up and brought down — the road is clear for the ascencion of the “four penguins.”  Empowered, unopposed, and in “high places,” the penguins now pull whichever bodies and souls they wish from the earthly “pond.”

But . . . why penguins?   Penguins, like the Beavers mentioned before, are hardly berserkful predators. 

Again, the answer is the sublety of Philosophical Alchemy, the rich texture of “”the Game” and its peculiar semiotics.  Not everything was encoded into architecture.

Emperor Penguins — even more powerfully than zebras — are faunal carriers of the opposites, of duality, of conuinctio.   

 

 

Empire.  Souls.  What it is what it is.

These penguins are almost exactly half black and half white, and thus represent both the change in spiritual status (Christ boy to Penguin Quartet.)  The Four Emperors, simultaneously black and white, abuse and dethrone the single-male “Man on the Moon.”  A boyish sole agency, slightly removed but still very human, is supplanted by a predatory, collective alien agency, from far back along the phylogenetic tree.  Animal-sorcery, so also far back in human psychology and rite.  Emperors suggest Japan, the Far East, the Tiger — collectivities, yin-yang polarity, power-animals . . . we’re talkin’ Eastern sorcery, mostly.  Quar/tet.  

Barack, Michelle, Malia, and Little Sasha.  Plus Granny makes Five!  :O)  

 Fish don’t fry in the kitchen;
Beans don’t burn on the grill.
Took a whole lotta tryin’
Just to get up that hill.
Now we’re up in the big leagues
Gettin’ our turn at bat.
As long as we live, it’s you and me baby
There ain’t nothin wrong with that.

Well we’re movin on up,
To the east side.
To a deluxe apartment in the sky.
Movin on up
To the east side.
We finally got a piece of the pie.

 

“Movin’ On Up (The Robinson Jefferson’s Theme)

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