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The Crying of Lot 49 by Thomas Pynchon

Passing by Nella Larsen

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Stranger in a Strange Land by Robert A. Heinlein

The Jungle by Upton Sinclair

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Member: brian5764

CollectionsFaves (90), Read (214), Currently reading (6), Not so great after all (5), Dude, forget it (3), To read (201), All collections (519)

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TagsFiction (445), English Literature (414), American Literature (267), Esoterica (109), Postmodernism (106), British Literature (92), Realism (89), Nonfiction (80), A Helluvǝ Slog (79), Banned Books (78) — see all tags

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About me            Quick Writeup/A Few Bullet Points/Likes

       One—Done moved on from Reading Lite. The Tastes Great part can be cool, even refreshing now and then; but the Less Filling part just doesn’t work if you wannǝ keep on learning, arriving at your next level of understanding, and sorting out what the Big Picture/the Implex is really all about. And I do. (Isn’t that the point?)
       Two—“Individualist.” Jack London’s term, and which his one-of-a-kind novel Martin Eden is all about. (I like to think of individualism as the antithesis of groupthink.)
       Three—“Rebel-artist-mystic.” Flannery O’Connor, in her amazing Complete Stories, explained it better than anyone else ever could.
       Four—Vegetarian. (The novels of Hermann Hesse can be credited for part of it.) It was a sudden conversion, and it probably happens that way to lots of folks who’re interested in metaphysics. (Hey, don’t knock it: you get the godawful meat with the godawful growth hormones out of your system and those pesky, unwanted forty-four kilograms/ninety-seven pounds might fall offǝ you, too.)
       Five—Student of postmodernist and modernist literature in particular, but of other periods—and genres—as well. In nonfiction, I’m interested in linguistics, “cultural” theory, metaphysics, mysticism, the occult/the esoteric, gnosis/gnosticism, theosophy, the paranormal/the transnormal, multidimensional anatomy, and fractal holographics. (I’m a newbie in the last three, but givǝn it the old college try anyhoo.)
              Five a.)—On and off for a few years, I’ve enjoyed some of the postFaulknerian work of Cormac McCarthy (whose novels, by period, are obviously postmodern, but their style—since they have literary characteristics more akin to modernism—is more like what I’d call retromodern), especially the ones he wrote in the western genre. I like the fact that, in his westerns—(think the Border Trilogy, not Blood Meridian, because the latter is horrifically violent and superdifficult, but not in a fun, engaging way)—when the dudes are traipsing around Mexico, el diálogo en español no es traducido. (Of course, when most authors write dialogue en inglés y en español, they turn right around and spoonfeed you the “answer,” and that’s just, well, demasiado fácil.)
              Five b.)—Excited about having started in on the short stories of H. P. Lovecraft! However, while his gothic/horror/fantasy is outstanding, there is more going on here than meets the eye: when reading some of his stories (notably “The Other Gods” and “The Call of Cthulhu”), the red flags of the gnostic apocryphal texts’—especially the Book of Enoch’s—warnings against the watchers/the nephilim/the so-called archons can’t help but stand up and wave at you (at least if you’ve done your homework); and the so-called Cthulhu Mythos (not Lovecraft’s term) and the grimoire that he used (known as the “Necronomicon”) seem almost to be a metaphor and a playbook for the summoning in of the [reptilian/illuminati] New World Order. Yikes. And if that don’t beat all, the artwork that spawned offǝ this mythos (initiated by none other than the author himself) also happens to be the schema/thematic/visual framework for lots of kids’ gaming domains. (Well I’ll be dipped, whipped, and flipped: I had no idea about that. Wonder if these young’ǝns/gamers have any idea what they’re messǝn with.) Hmm, I wonder if his short stories also connect with the fall of Atlantis and what all else they might allude to or shed some light on, albeit from an unnerving perspective. Wow, this dude really did give new meaning to the word creepy! But the most amazing thing is that Lovecraft—who was somewhere between Edgar Allan Poe and Stephen King in terms of the timeline—knew about virtual reality sixty or seventy years before William Gibson birthed the cyberpunk subgenre of scifi with Neuromancer! Holy crap on a cracker. (Whoops! Apparently I’m partly wrong in re. the subgenre: a few years before Gibson’s novel was published, a Minnesotan, Bruce Bethke, coined the term cyberpunk for a short story of the same name; yet the novel Neuromancer was probably responsible for the term’s and the concept’s becoming more widespread.)
              Five c.)—Turns out there’s not just a generation gap, but a country gap, and other gaps, and they make people think—and therefore behave—differently, sometimes radically so, from one group to the next. (Culture, schmulture. Live in a different country for significant time and you see clearly that the people there don’t have a different culture, but a different mind. Each group with a gap, so to speak, is wired differently, and linguistic relativity seemingly does not account for the entire disparity.) Why? Who or what is driving that? How is it being used against humanity as a whole? And what about how the “mainstream media”/the trancebox/the boobtube manipulate human thinking in an en-masse sortǝ way with subliminal messages and incredible propaganda and god knows what all else? Por ejemplo: why do most folks buy that it is “terrorism” when “they” do it but not when “we” do it? Simple hypocrisy, or is there far more to it than that? I love studying this stuff—the “gaps” and what Noam Chomsky calls “the spectacular achievements of propaganda,” that is—and figuring out how it all ties to the hidden knowledge/the matrix/the insane game we’re stuck in. (And, of course, figuring out which books actually pertain to these topics. Interestingly enough, among the relevant ones is The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious by C. G. Jung. Synchronicity has also pointed out to me that the literary theorist/philosopher Michel Foucault [who is not to be confused with the physicist Léon Foucault that Umberto Eco referred to in the novel Foucault’s Pendulum] may have provided another exciting lead! But don’t bother, though, with Myth and Meaning: Cracking the Code of Culture by the anthropologist Claude Lévi-Strauss, because it turned out to be a dud of a little pamphlet in which the author didn’t even define any terms or codes, much less let alone crack ǝm.)
              Five d.)—At a faster rate than was the case before the Harmonic Convergence of ’eighty-seven, lots of us are waking up—and some of us are evolving enough to avoid being duped into reincarnating back into the frequency prison/matrix of the demiurge’s material realm. We see reality for what it is: unreality. Which is to say that what passes for “normal life” can now be seen by some as simulated (programmed) reality, mass deception, illusion, and, well, bullshit. And just like humans herd/abuse/consume some lower life forms for their physical/carnal energy—(when the moral wrongness of this really sinks in is when you become a vegetarian, of course)—there are sentient beings in a higher dimension who are feeding off of our spiritual energy and using us for our labor. (Not to mention that some of them are trying to run a takeover plan [which may or may not include a “fake alien invasion”; and, of course, I say fake because they’re already here—and have been for millennia—and if you don’t know that yet then you haven’t been paying attention!].) Moreover, while they’re deceiving us, big time—especially with fairytale religions!—they’re laughing at us all the way to the bank, which is what David Foster Wallace called the “infinite jest” and what Goethe called the “laughter of the gods.” And this mocking, it turns out, is greatly exacerbated when they let us know partly how they’re going about it all—which is also known as the “revelation of the method”—and which one must be pretty much blind not to be able to see, because references are legion, all over the place in literature, the trancebox, cyberspace, and flicks, so piece it together. (“It’s only a novel—”/“It’s just a movie—” my assets! Nope, it’s not that simple, folks: fiction is chocked full of nonfictional allusions to the occult/the esoteric. That is how it’s done.) The bottom line in my world is the following: if all of this lunacy does not demand a ton of reading and studying and transcending religion through gnosis and transcending the new age movement through gnosis and transforming personally and reaching out to others and sitting out the system and sitting out the mainstream, I don’t know what does.
              Five e.)—Although no longer a diehard mystery fan, I’ve been thrilled lately about tackling Dashiell Hammett’s hardboiled/noir short stories and novels, ’cause even if his work seems dated, it not only utilizes the unique tactic/methodology among whodunit writers of starting with a situation that is already fabricated to begin with and subsequently deconstructing all the versions of false reality out of it until what’s left is the “real” reality—(which may “solve” the case but which isn’t really real anyway ’cause life itself is only a fiction, at least in Hammett’s world [and in mine as well])—but it also happens to represent the method I try to employ as a sorterouter: that is, I’m someone who at least attempts to plow through and figure out as much of the aforementioned simulated (programmed) reality/mass deception/illusion/bullshit that constitutes life by peeling away as many of the false layers as I can. What a cool connection!
              Five f.)—Many moons ago, having completed Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451 (an excellent book) and H. G. WellsThe Time Machine (a pretty good book)—and, of course, the bare-minimum-everyone-must-read dystopian novels, Brave New World by Aldous Huxley and Nineteen Eighty-four by George Orwell, which are both awesome and prophetic—I thought I’d sufficiently delved into science fiction. My tune has changed as I’ve come to realize that with scifi, “they” tend, as a general rule, to reveal/divulge more of the previously referred-to method and overview/details of the Big Picture/the Implex in this genre than they do in any other. You have, for instance, the occult/the esoteric/the theosophical all over the joint in Robert A. Heinlein’s Stranger in a Strange Land, which is a marvelous read even without all of those particular bells and whistles. And if you’re looking for a metaphorical and, at times, even almost literal overview of the alien invasion and a snapshot of paranormal/transnormal manipulation in the [ubiquitous] matrix, you can’t do better than Childhood’s End by Arthur C. Clarke and Ubik by Philip K. Dick, respectively. What’s more, having gone back to Bradbury—whose work (which I learned is called soft science fiction) is debatably more about human nature and human struggle than it is about so-called futuristic technology (and thus the flipflop would be hard science fiction)—I was simply amazed with The Martian Chronicles and how successfully he pulled off so many (but not too many) themes in one neatly-tied-together composite novel. Love it! So you see, this old dog can learn new tricks; and now, I’m a definite convert to scifi, especially the stuff from the Golden Age and New Wave periods, and especially since some of it dovetails with postmodernism and vice versa. Get what is synchronistically the right scifi book in front of you and it practically shouts the unfolding of evermore info relevant to your own search! How can you go wrong?
              Five g.)—If you’re a big postmodern fan like I am, you can’t miss the little-known but essential pomo read Wittgenstein’s Mistress by David Markson! The entire novel scrunched into one chapter, it rides the crest of a crescendo like Ravel’s Boléro with solipsistic narrative gone insane like stream of consciousness on steroids and a whackjob of a woman who tries to make meaning—linguistic and philosophical and whatever else she can grab at—out of her fallen little world. Now we’re cookǝn with gas.
       Six—Experienced ESL teacher, with a degree even. (If you’re a resident of the New Atlantis and you don’t know what ESL means—
              Six a.)—that’s partly why it doesn’t pay worth shit; and
              Six b.)—find out, ’cause the good ol’ U.S.A. ain’t no Mayberry anymore. [Yeah, I know, it never really was “good,” although it used to be not so outrageous; now it’s a country with a fascist Big Brother of a government that engineers and orchestrates abusive schemes against its own people {most of whom are sheeple who do not know and who don’t even want to know}, psychopathic military operations, and insane psyops which dovetail with the so-called archontic agenda.])
              Six c.)—Let’s go. Set the bar high and negotiate it a little lower later only if necessary: a few middle-of-the-roaders and slackers will not see the course through regardless of what gets done or does not get done and no matter who steers the boat, so crank up the prepackaged, partially unintegrated, fall-short syllabus wherever it craps out and teach to the high and the motivated and advance ǝm as far as possible without discouraging them, ’cause if you set the bar medium or low, that’s exactly what you get: medium or low.
              Six d.)—Some native speakers with a B.A. or higher degree in English or who have some type of adjunct K-12 “certification in English”—(the not-necessarily-too-obvious implication of the prior scare quotes being that only a linguistic and “cultural” naïf would presume that some alleged, sanctioned ability to teach language to students who have the same native language as the teacher necessarily translates into an equivalent ability to teach language to students who have a different native language)—but who don’t know diddly squat about phonology or second language acquisition theory or advanced descriptivist grammar or the incorporation of the mechanics of grammar into teaching essay writing, and who also have not the slightest idea of how beastly difficult it is to try to learn another language—let alone actually acquire it—these folks (and it’s amazing how many of ǝm there are out there) think that they’d make adequate or even great ESL teachers; and I haftǝ wonder what they’re smokǝn.
              Six e.)—Speaking of language acquisition or lack thereof, perhaps the “Elohim,” (read: the “Anunnaki”?) or the “gods”—and that’s plural—did not “confound our languages” (Genesis 11:7 [Don’t worry, I’m not a Jesus-saved-me type who’s tryǝn to work in lots of verses; but the bible—an astrotheological literary hybrid if there ever was one—can be, at times, a quite useful research tool.]); perhaps, anyway, “they” didn’t confound our languages by creating more languages or through some other linguistic means (which is what everyone assumes); but rather, perhaps they did so by coding each already-existing dialect of a language (the “one people with the same language” thing from the previous verse being metaphorical?) to a unique “wavelength” or frequency (Jakob Böhme called it a “signature”), and subsequently preventing us (by utilizing encumbering frequencies?) from being able to zero in on the wavelength/frequency/signature intrinsic to the dialect of any language that is not our own. It’s like it’s right there, but we don’t know that yet; it’s like the signature is a door or portal that is locked, but we don’t have the key yet. We humans, though, should easily be able to tap into the right “vibration.” That is to say, we should—if operating with our telepathic abilities that occur naturally when we’re not under the confines of this planet’s frequency prison, that is—be able, e.g., to step off a plane in Helsinki, reset our “native frequency” that we’re operating under and thinking in, and, within minutes, understand and be fluently conversant in Finnish. Remarkably, the famous and sometimes dreaded “Ineluctable Modality” Episode of James Joyce’s Ulysses (which is a bit of a bear to plow through, by the way) hints at this concept, albeit in a rather roundabout way. (Well, um, yeah, that’s part of what I got out of it; your takeaways may vary.)
       Siete—Viví en México por mucho tiempo y puedo hablar español bastante bien.

                                                    Quick Rundown/Dislikes

       One—I Beg Your Pardon: I Never Promised You a [Politically Correct] Rose Garden. (Thanks for the inspiration, Lynn Anderson!) Making so-called cultural/social progress is not all that it appears to be to many who are enlightened/educated and not logjammed by religion; moreover, we’ve lost enough of our objectivity nowadays such that we’ve become too candyass to call a spade a spade anymore, and I refuse to play along with that. (“Political correctness” amounts to a type of neoGramscian cultural hegemony, which is one of the strategies that’s being used against us, so let’s see it for what it is. [Of course, crony capitalism—out of all the isms/schisms they done thought up yet, the fastest way to the globalization of poverty for the ninety-nine percent—and christianity—the most hypocritical of the patriarchal fairytale religions—are major weapons used by the “elite overseers” of the matrix to make and keep humanity all [bleeped] up {at least in the “world’s policeman”/bully corner of the globe}, but so are cultural Marxism and its offshoots, one of which is the big P.C. Pretty neato-cool stuff “they” done thought up, this P.C. thing, huh? I mean, with this bullshit, they don’t even haftǝ be the Thought Police, ’cause we are—if we’re gullible enough to fall for it—doing the policing for ǝm. Talk about divide and conquer!])
       Two—Not a fan of the new soma, the ubiquitous handheld gadgets/gizmos that are obliterating our real interpersonal communications abilities, contributing to health problems and destruction in some parts of the world, increasing noise pollution/violating the personal space of others, addicting/enslaving everyone without most of y’all even realizing it, and causing our young folk to have the attention span of a gnat.
       Three—“What’s the score?!” When I was a child, I learned good sportsmanship, got exercise/fresh air, and played along for a while; when I grew up, I put away childish things and counterproductive things and puerile competitiveness and noisy drivel and superfluous entertainment/infotainment and endless chatter about nothing that really matters anyway.
       Four—Have you noticed that the vast majority of the ninety-nine percent are too clueless/spiritually asleep/spineless/lazy to do a damned thing about the one percent? If that’s not a superfrustrating big ol’ pissmeoff, I don’t know what is.
       Five—In re. the jobbmarket/workworld (jobb being a four-letter word and all): my, but the ringleaders sure are mighty nasty/patronizing/presumptuous/insulting/manipulative, what with the whole thing being a penal colony/ratrace stress factory/backstabbing witchhunt and not to mention that you’re under the jurisdiction of the Keystone Kops and that it’s likely not worth your while and possibly hazardous to your health and maybe you somehow got screwed out of insurance and you’re definitely a slave if you can’t not go to work and unless you figure out some way to refuse to play the bullshit game and all. And don’t forget that they almost always end up trying to stifle your creativity. Wow! How can this be?! Even if things are going well for a while, they always turn on you, sooner or later. Every time, every place, you leave, throwing your hands up in the air, shaking your head; and you haftǝ wonder who in the hell they think they are. And, sometimes, that was just the interview! But the bottom line is that given how consequential and injurious and even expensive working a jobb can be, I cannot understand why everyone and his brother and his dog make it their concern and their business to wannǝ hurry up and assimilate all and sundry back into the Borg of getting yet another jobb the minute that someone escapes the nightmare/hell on Earth of the previous one. That just doesn’t make sense, folks. What’s the point of inflicting all this pressure on each other? Why get all pissy when a fellow prisoner breaks out of his cell, shooting both him and yourself in the feet? Instead of wasting energy on counterproductivity, why don’t we focus on invoking a collective paradigm shift and eradicating the prison itself? Think about it.
       Six—Donchyǝ just hate it when the local library can’t get the material you’re itchǝn to peruse/ponder next—even with an interlibrary loan setup, they can’t—’cause you’re surrounded by Steele/Grisham/Sparks fans who have never graduated from Reading Lite? (Steele and Grisham and Sparks don’t warrant links in my world.) Beam me up already, por favor.

About my library       Thanks for taking a quick look at these snippets of synopses—sans spoilers, of course—of some awesome reads that you won’t be able to live without! (That is, of course, if you haven’t read them already.)

                                                            All-time Faves

       Why Americans Hate Politics by E. J. Dionne, Jr. (1991): a very sophisticated yet pragmatic book which will help almost anyone gain a better grasp of the “false polarization of false choices” that Americans are still struggling with today;
       The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck (1939): a Great American Novel candidate, contrapuntally alternated with a skillful rendering of the loss of the American dream en masse is a supremely vivid depiction of one family of have-nots and their ever-worsening descent into penury and desperation;
       The Sound and the Fury by William Faulkner (1929): another Great American Novel candidate—this one about the degeneration of one family of haves set against the backdrop of the cruel and complex postbellum South—the seeming incongruities resulting from the shifts in consciousness, chronology, and narrative voice can be resolved with persistence and patience, and getting the sorting out done is worthwhile because a reader who brings nothing to the table and wants only and always to be a passive entertainee is not a mature reader;
       Portnoy’s Complaint by Philip Roth (1969): in this brilliant satire, the funniest laugh-out-loud book I ever read, a neurotic man can’t seem to escape his sex addiction or his hilarious but relentlessly nagging New York jewish mother (yeah, I know, it’s a stereotype, but who cares if the author, jewish himself, doesn’t?);
       Love Medicine by Louise Erdrich (1984, 1993): with multiperspectivity and disjointed yet interconnected fragmentation, this postmodern composite novel about life on the rez and the restoration of hope should be required reading, especially for those of us who are from the Dakotas or Minnesota;
       Independent People by Halldór Laxness (1935): in this mindboggling epic that most readers have never heard of, a simpleminded, grumpy shepherd subsists in dire living conditions yet sedulously toils to be debt free while being pitted against obstacles, manmade and supernatural, that he can never quite grasp—this morose, complexly plotted, intense, slowgoing rare gem of a book from Iceland is worth every minute it takes to trudge through it;
       Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace (1996): another Great American Novel candidate, over-the-top, hysterically realistic, recherché madness with a myriad of funny-as-all-get-out narrative voices and finessed plotting and backstory (some of which occur in the endnotes, for cryǝn out loud), this weighty tome is the consummate hit-the-nail-on-the-head indictment of how pathetic postpostmodern American society has become as pretty much everyone is hooked on consumerism and escapism—(like mind-dumbing boobtube-watching or mind-numbing alcohol-and-other-drug using)—and deluded and stymied by ubiquitous “solutions,” like Alcoholics Anonymous, which is both bizarre and cultic, and which this novel—better than any other, ever—excoriates as being every bit as whackadoodle as the problems and their consequences;
       Siddhartha by Hermann Hesse (1922): the quintessential epiphany for anyone on a spiritual journey just might be found in this novella because the protagonist is the only journeyer smart enough to realize that since enlightenment comes from within, clinging to a teacher/guru/sponsor/mentor or to traditional religion (or converting to any new one of the above) will always be a stumbling block to true spiritual progress, because no one can ever hammer out his own answers to life’s seemingly impervious questions and thereby secure his own release from virtually interminable reincarnations by studying and following the answers of someone else;
       Lord of Light by Roger Zelazny (1967): call it scifi if you must, but it is not fantasy nor a syncretistic blend of scifi and fantasy because this superingenious tour de force is a big ol’ multitasking pomo allegory, a picture of extraterrestrials and their global establishment, right here on slavecolony planet Earth, of myth/religion—(does the research of James George Frazier, Godfrey Higgins, Zecharia Sitchin, and Alexander Hislop resonate, anyone?)—the “cast of characters” of which may be likened to the hindu pantheon of “gods” or to the cryptically-referred to “Anunnaki” in the old testament as well as in The Epic of Gilgamesh or take your pick from among the “gods” of any of the other “belief systems” which are the opiates of humans, because they’re all the same beings, albeit with different names—this masterpiece is complete with a wildride metanarrative structure in which the chapter sequencing is itself indicative of flashbacks of past lives, reincarnation, and eventual escape to Nirvana, and it plays out, no less, with the “gods” trying to make up their minds as to whether we humans should be granted the Life and the Knowledge so that we may be like unto them, plural: “Then the fit hit the Shan,” and, “It’s a long way to Tipperary,” indeed; and
       The Satanic Verses by Salman Rushdie (1988): the author, condemned to death by so-called fatwa by closeminded fundamentalist extremists merely because their part of the world has yet to go through some semblance of an Enlightenment, pulls out all the stops in this multicultural, anti-religion, flawless postmodern magnum opus—complete with hysterical realism, magical realism, intertextuality with the qur’an, and contrapuntally structured subplots—which is easily conquerable with the accompaniment of a good annotated guide (unnecessary though, if you’re an expert in the cultures of India and the popculture of Bollywood and fluent in Hindi, Farsi, Urdu, and Arabic), which turns the tables on both the Brit colonization mentality and on smallminded, anti-immigrant, racist Brits (and, by extension, Yanks), and which, most delightfully, mocks the bejesus out of islam in particular and religion in general.

                                                        A Few Final Thoughts

       Looking forward to adding more synopses in the near future, including one for the most amazing novel I ever read—House of Leaves by Mark Z. Danielewski—and one for the most difficult book (fiction/nonfiction/you name it) I ever read—Gravity’s Rainbow by Thomas Pynchon. Time permitting, I’d also like to add some stuff on why Bringers of the Dawn by Barbara Marciniak can easily be seen as bait-and-switch bullshit (intended as a trap for hopeful but naïve new agers who wannǝ come full circle before having done enough comparative analysis, so that for lack of discernment they fall for the ever-so-appealing idea of “rapturing” up and out of prison planet every bit as much as gullible bornagainers who haven’t done their research do, having fallen for the same ploy?) and on why sorterouters need to approach Castaneda, Icke, and Sitchin (among others) with caution, ’cause in this game, deception is part of the game. Which is precisely why—when investigating recondite information—I try to sift through it carefully, by keeping in mind that there is also a lot of mis- and disinformation out there.¹
       But the primary cause of disinformation, not to mention all the deception that we’re struggling with, is the “ankle biters.” Take away the ankle biters—(according to some who’ve transcended the new age movement, if you call ǝm “archons” [which means “rulers,” and we’re talkǝn negatively polarized, fourth-density-based² reptilians and greys here], you’re givǝn ǝm way more power than they deserve, ’cause they’re actually more mind[bleeped]ers and manipulators than anything else)—take ǝm away, them and their creepy, illusory operation here on what is presently prison planet for a moment. Pretend they were never here. What do we have? What can we do? Well, now we’re very cool, empowered humans who are grounded in positively polarized third density—in physicality, that is, with flesh bodies as bases of sorts—who can: maneuver and interrelate transdimensionally; interact with Sophia/Gaia and her gridlines and leylines (the currently obstructionist objects, like Stonehenge, for instance, having been removed); experience her Kundalini energy flows (each and every one of us, not just the very few who have done meditation for many years); live for nine hundred years instead of the proverbial seventy (because the powergrid is functioning optimally without being suppressed by encumbering frequencies and holograms); open and close the third eye (with a fully-activated pineal gland that is not all [bleeped] up from the effects of a poison called fluoride) just as we were designed to do, and thus see any potentially threatening entity for what it is and kick it to the curb; perform telekinesis; and communicate telepathically whenever we feel like it. And what do we not have? Well, we don’t have belief systems and religions contrived to limit us, compartmentalize us, make us feel guilty and thereby generate loosh for higher-realm manipulators; nor do we have a fake, bullshit “money” system, the entirety of which is really just one giant, the-bubble-may-burst-any-day-now Ponzi scheme devised to keep most of us in debt and poverty, not to mention so busy and stressed out with jobbs that we can’t see the forest/matrix for the trees/red herrings, much less let alone have time to do anything really useful in life. (Even some of the fancy, highflyǝn wheelerdealers [who know a lot more about the “markets”—yawn!—than I do] are admitting that the whole thing is a “funny money fiat system” and that all the king’s horses and all the king’s men will soon not be able to put it back together again. And while the world of finance and the jargon associated with it are not really my cup of tea, I am at least aware that the lousy crony capitalist system of the New Atlantis is fabianistically morphing into a corporatist oneworld State and that the so-called Federal Reserve System is a colossal scam set up along the lines of the Hegelian dialectic of problemreactionsolution. [In this case, manipulate “bank scares” and perpetrate “runs on the banks”–convince the public that it consequently needs a “centralized bank” that everyone thinks is “federal”–establish an unconstitutional, privately owned money system; and then—in conjunction with the so-called International Monetary Fund—eventually place a stranglehold on all the governments and on all the people of the world.]) Wouldn’t it be awesome? Being free from all this crap, that is? We could get there if only enough sheeple would stop following the herd of communal groupthink³ and wake up!
       The waking up, the spiritual path, the true journey: without reading and studying, it is all incomplete, based on insufficient knowledge. So I’m trying to augment my foundation of knowledge, and who can do that without books?! (Books, you know, actual items that you can physically pick up, and you can actually turn the pages. You remember them, right? Down with so-called ebooks! Are you aware that these gadgets/gizmos relay info to cellphone satellite towers, and that said towers are actually weapons [in more ways than one]? Why would you want Big Brother to know even that much more about what you’re reading, like when and whether you actually read the “book” that you bought, like what “page” you’re on, and like even how fast you’re reading? Come on, folks. Don’t let ǝm take that too!) As such, I’m making my own canon, or what’s left of it, so to speak. In other words, because I ain’t no spring chicken, I probably won’t be able to finish everything I haven’t yet read off the Modern Library’s One Hundred Best Novels list or the One-Thousand-and-One list. (Don’t get me wrong: if it’s a goal of yours to do something like that, kudos to you and knock yourself out.) I’m just sayǝn that I know my own list—what I need to crank out before I disincarnate out of here, that is—and I appreciate LibraryThing and the fact that the “categorizing” that I’ve been able to accomplish in this environment have helped me towards that end. This website has also been beneficial to me in my own analysis of that insufferable, elusive Big Picture/Implex.
       Still looking to compare notes with likeminded people who have similar interests and who actually still use desktops and (godforbid) laptops—(oh well, at least you can type on a laptop, kindǝ/sortǝ)—which is to say anyone who has not taken the plunge into the bizarre neverneverland of apps to the exclusion of actual computers.
       Wake up; fight on; peace out.


       One—Researchers’ presentations of occult/esoteric info often contain x percentage of clever little lies or sneaky little traps designed to get sloppy/careless sorterouters stranded on some plateau(x) (they weren’t just whistlǝn dixie when they called it an Implex!); fortunately, though, such material is frequently “stamped” or “marked” in such a way that identifies it as of the darkness or of the false light: like, for example—
              One a.)—an author works the symbol of the pyramid or the allseeing eye into a book when it’s unnecessary to the context and/or when the symbol itself isn’t being explained; or like
              One b.)—a seminar presenter quickflashes a hook-ǝm-horns handsignal in some YouTube video while the camera is zoomed way out so that most viewers will miss who his allegiance is really with; or like
              One c.)—a scholar of ancient texts deliberately casuistically mistranslates words with subtle differences in shades of meaning to get readers off on an incorrect tangent, even though the base information itself is very helpful; so, heads up!
       Two—The term density corresponds somewhat—but not exactly synonymously—with the term dimension. The seven densities (which are sometimes considered to be comprised of a total of twelve or thirteen) are mapped in a geometrically complex way and can be thought of as lining up with the Kabbalah, the Tree of Life, Yggdrasil, or a myriad of other names, if you happen to be dealing with a “base” esotericism/religion/mythology. However, such alignment does not imply that other, (mostly lower-level) attributes and concepts of said esotericism/religion/mythology are necessarily correct. The Implex, obviously, was purposely set up to bottleneck us in any way that it can.
       Three—Because each individual emits unique fractals—yes, quantum physics and metaphysics do connect at some point—based on different needs/experiences/“karma” and because the labyrinth/the matrix is constructed with the anfractuosity necessary to adjust accordingly (the concept of which shows up in House of Leaves, by the way!), each individual’s exit out of the labyrinth/the matrix is necessarily a unique journey. (Each individual’s escape is probably through a separate, distinct door or portal, so to speak.) Although spiritually awake individuals can help each other, there is no communal/pantheistic/“we-are-all-one” way out of this particular density/dimension. (I’m not talkǝn about the bighouse of the jobbmarket/workworld here, but the whole enchilada, the entire realm itself: we have to cooperatively oust the ankle biters or individually figure out how to avoid coming back to the demiurge’s material world yet again.) Furthermore, there is to be found, oddly enough, in Jungian parapsychology, and specifically in The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious, the key to understanding why the buddhist concept of striving for the “collective consciousness” is balderdash: there is no such thing! Here in the third density/dimension, because consciousness is individuated, there can therefore be no such thing as a “collective consciousness.” The only thing that is truly collective—at least until we get to a higher realm—is the unconscious. In other words, we cannot groupthink our way out of prison planet, folks. Moreover, “cultures,” “traditions,” and anything else that limits or inhibits individualism/individuality and/or that tries to get people to accept that which is intrinsically and ludicrously unacceptable with “that’s-the-way-it-is” rationalization are a huge part of what is keeping us stuck.

Updated May 3, 2016. Thanks a lot for reading!

Groups1001 Books to read before you die, 18th-19th Century Britain, 50-Something Library Thingers, 9/11 Truth, African/African American Literature, American Postmodernism, Arthurian Legends, Books that made me think, Bookshelf of the Damned, British & Irish Crime Fictionshow all groups


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