The drums boomed as the bottle with sugarcane liquor
passed from mouth to mouth. In the pale moonlight, on a lot
limited by thorny bushes and a hut, two dozen white-clad
figures moved to the rhythm. Usually, the herbs added to the
liquor had a euphoric effect, compelling ecstatic dancing
and putting body and mind into a trance, ready to receive the
dead who would gaze through twisted eyes and speak trough
other people’s mouths. But this time the brew was different.
The drums swelled and the masters and mistresses of
ceremonies, experienced keepers of darkest secrets, became
phenomena: Gargoyle-like creatures, some horned, others
dog-mouthed or bristling like pigs, some feathered like birds,
soaring into the treetops with the swiftness of a blink. And
all, the drummers, the masters and dancers joined forces to
break the curse that had already cost several lives.
He had come to Cuba as a child and since then had gone his
own way, despising the others, their customs and dreams,
animal-like and slavish as anything a Haitian could bring
about. But the walk of a girl captivated his look, her laughter
enchanted him, her eyes conquered his innermost being. But
never would she turn her back on the others to enter his hut.
In the fields outside the bohío, even further away than his
own hut, lived an old woman feared by all. From her hands
he received a powder, enriched with the desire hidden in
their common ill-will. Soon the beloved would be his! A
careless moment in one of the few feasts of the bohío was
enough to sprinkle the remedy into her cup. Then he
withdrew to wait for her. On the third day there was a knock
at his door, but there were men. The girl had died in terrible
pain, foaming at the mouth, and the old woman had
confessed everything at the sight of the machetes. Now, she
was already lying in her blood, forever freed from her hatred.
But with him they had other plans. The blades poisoned with
excrement cut into his skin, which became a biting hell
where for weeks he writhed between life and death, until he
emerged from it as a creature disfigured for life.
For decades he had hidden himself in the darkness of his hut
from the gaze of others. With hands disfigured by scars, the
now old man accepted the daily bowl of rice and beans, long
since he had atoned for his deed and the others had forgotten
and turned to the new times, seemingly less dark, though full
of hardship. But still the old scars burned, and hatred seethed
like lava.
One day doctors came and told of an epidemic to protect
against. The puncture was almost painless, and they came
back every two weeks, three times in total. For a long time
nothing happened, while many predicted the imminent death
of all. Then, one night, he felt him under his riddled skin,
filling his emptiness. While he grew he offered to fulfill the
most hidden desires. The old man craved revenge alone and
was shown the way. Inside his hut, loud and unmistakable,
waving a bottle of strong booze, he execrated all Haitians
and scrawled the curse with his own blood on a piece of
paper, which he placed outside the door. So that the contract
would be valid. Finally, he doused himself with the liquor,
set himself on fire, and cursed to the last anyone who had
ears for his dying croak.
Laurent was a simple Haitian worker who, despite his
meager life, loved rum and women. One evening he took the
bottle from the kitchen table, went into the backyard, sat
down under a kapok tree, doused himself with the alcohol
and lit himself on fire. Five months later, there were already
four pichones who had taken their own lives in this way, and
for the Haitian community of San Germán, what evil and
fearful tongues had been repeating for months, was gradually
becoming a certainty: The old man was about to take every
Haitian to his miserable afterlife.
The drums thundered as the bottle with sugarcane liquor
passed from mouth to mouth. For two weeks already, the
ceremonies had lasted in Matanzas, a province located seven
hundred kilometers west of San Germán. The masters of
Palo Monte Mayombe, how Voodoo is called in Cuba, had
made the long journey to break the old man’s curse in the
cradle and sacred ground of all Afro-Cuban religions. The
nights were long and full of rituals, and many of those
present turned into phenomena and entered the world of
demons to hunt the dark spirit of the old man down. After so
many days, exhaustion spread, but also the certainty of
having made it.
Around noon, the hour of the ghosts and the dead, Pierre, a
tall slender Haitian in his mid-thirties with a serious face,
had risen from his bed in Matanzas after another long and
exhausting night playing the drum, but the heat under the
corrugated iron roof had become unbearable. He found no
rum, but the kerosene next to the stove was enough. He went
outside, sat under a tree, doused himself with the oily liquid
and set himself on fire.
“We are in despair,” my little witch wrote to me. “Everything
was in vain.”
That same day, I came across the link from Jack Heart’s
article in my mailbox, commenting on Dr. Lee Merritt’s
observations. When it was mentioned that the Russian
vaccine was also contaminated by Western suppliers, I
shuddered. After all, Cuba prides itself on its own vaccines –
but how much of it is actually produced in local laboratories?
The global players in the pharmaceutical industry also have
their sales offices in Cuba.
We all have observed the personality-altering effects of these
vaccinations, wherever they might come from. While the
precise mechanism is in the realm of speculation, the
spiritual effect of the poison is more than obvious. Many, if
not most of the vaccinated seem to suffer a disconnection
between their apparent self and the deeper layers of their
being, if not to say their soul – But what is this good for?
My humble guess is this: Everything is conscious space and
thus everything in space is conscious. The eternal creation
taking place in it, originating from few dualistic principles,
spawns a pulsating universe of complex geometry, which
condenses to the antipole of this light and shiny play, to the
Samsara of the Lord of Darkness, Lungambe in voodoo, who
presumes to be on a par with the all-embracing spirit of light.
In these swamps of gravity man shall be held to forget the
highs from which he came. To this has to be added Malachi
Martin’s observation of the special accessibility of Haitians
to demonic possession: Those who know Afro-Cuban
religions are aware of how thin the membrane to those
realms is. Thin enough to pierce it with a hypodermic needle.
Eager to get more information, I wrote to a friend, well
related to a scientist involved in the Cuban vaccine
development and advised my little witch in Matanzas – since
ivermectin seems to attack the microparticles of the vaccine
as if they were parasites – the endangered Haitians may take
antiparasitic substances, also herbs and home remedies,
because the supply situation in Cuba is so disastrous that
even aspirin has become a rarity.
The answer from the Cuban vaccine laboratory was prompt
and evasive: what I had been asking for, was delicate
information that could not be released so easily. Within the
realm of this speculative vagueness falls the entire behaviour
of Latin America in the last two years, including countries
critical of US globalism, which raises the suspicion of
pandering to WHO guidelines, if not worse.
Internally, there seems to be fierce dislocation on the
subcontinent, including in Cuba: since the tightening of the
U.S. embargo, coupled with the collapse of the tourism
industry due to pandemic and war, the supply situation on
the island is dire, and the fate of the country depends on the
goodwill of Russia and China. The American presidential
avatar “Joe Biden” is just waiting for the fruit, already
damaged by his predecessor, to fall into his lap without
lifting a finger. At the same time, in Cuba, the globalist tone
of the WHO joins the patriotic holdout slogans, and the 2030
Agenda or the concerns of the LGBT community are also
served in global agreement. Moreover, since last summer’s
color revolt incited by facebook avatars, eleven generals
have passed away, the most recent being Rodriguez López
Calleja a few days ago, all of them guarantors of the state
economy, which is closely intertwined with the military. If
Cuba were Iran, the culprit would be quickly identified – in
Cuba, however, the question is whether the globalists are
proceeding from the outside or from within.
Meanwhile, in Matanzas, the rituals continued on St. John’s
Eve, this saint being in the Santería religion Osun, the
mediator of the supreme Trinity of Olofin, Olorun and
Oloddumare. At first, it was not certain that what was
ordered would arrive on time, but finally some foot and skull
bones of the hateful old man made the hundreds of
kilometers. The pieces, after thorough preparation, were
charred in fire and delivered to the sea. Then, a few days
later, the earth got to eat: several chickens, a rooster and a
goat. One of the masters on this occasion turned into a snake
and wriggled down into the pit dug for the earth meal. My
little witch ran away in fright; she too will one day become a
phenomenon, for so it is written …
My Government Theripist for PTSD said I should write.
She was a Goddess.
She deserves a bench
In Wisconsin
I have aquired a laptop computer.
It failed immediately upon starting up
because bill gates decided that he had to have empire
said computer failed because ultimately lack of hard drive space
The updates destroyed the computers functionality
How I got in? First deleted bill gates shit software being win 10
installed a new operating system as works fine now
for basic computer functions
like surfing the web of things
Nine
Jack,
Our dearest MK has repeatedly told of us about his problems accessing the internet of things.
Perhaps we could cut him a little slack? Did you know that I got shut out of twitter the other day? That supposed androied "tablet" that was supposed to replace my laptop, never had one, prevented me from signing up for twater. however, moved up to a bigger warbird. The Win 10 desktop computer the Feds bought for me.
Got me on twatter.
Nine
I'm waiting on you Mike
I have the forthcoming piece more than half done. I would have it finished by now, but for the rise of vengeful evil. I really do need to be more measured in terms of what I say, especially in the comments. Again, this is not for myself, but for others, including those visiting hospital now.
I sincerely hope the piece is worth the wait, but all I can promise is that it will be as honest and authentic as the sunset over a government annihilated forest.
MK
Lighten up Jackson, I didn't write it, but I endorse it, not everyone puts their fate in the hands of the magnificent Jew in the white dress. You want hard facts I do Substack this is more or less Mike Kays site now
https://jackheart.substack.com/
What a crock… I've said it before, go back to hard history. It's what you're good at George.
A map depicting our current food destruction.
https://www.zeemaps.com/view?group=4410859&x=-89.849631&y=44.059004&z=14
Cyclists where very tight fitting hats
Many anti semantics say
All jews are cyclists
Only the best ones I know
A bicycle is like a voodoo doll
We ride8 her till we're finished
So, my dearest Jewish friends say cycling is like voodoo.
Gets into your blood
We are choosen
SPIRIT LED
gospel I see
Mind is always above matter. In fact, what we call reality is created out of mind. Therefore, to believe in something, is a strong creative force. Jacobo Grindberg for example described reality as a subjective experience within a structure he called lattice which can be altered by consciousness. The supposedly objective and material world dissolves into flowing experiences, each one being an unique and subjective view of a greater order.
Interesting read. Not quite the standard fare, but an interesting perspective.
I recall reading an article many years ago regarding voodoo. In a nutshell, a researcher or two were attempting to understand how voodoo worked and the conclusion they came to was this: voodoo works simply because the participant(s) believes it works.
I won’t even pretend to understand much about voodoo or it’s history, and I don’t have enough information to be able to say how effective any occult practice may be, other than to say I believe there is something substantial to all of this. However, more importantly, I am becoming increasingly convinced in the sheer power of thought.
Spirit, consciousness, thought, and intention. Makes me wonder why I am sharing this particular reality with all of you. Can’t say it’s been boring.
Mark