“That Adolf Hitler spoke out against the Jews is banal in the extreme. But that this is the first book ever to compile his remarks on the Jews is nothing short of astonishing. Of the thousands of books and articles written on Hitler, World War Two, and the Holocaust, virtually none of them quote Hitler’s exact words on the Jews—virtually none.
The reason for this is clear: Those in positions of influence in media, government, and universities have an incentive to present a simplistic and highly sanitized picture of Hitler as an insane Jew-hater, a blood-thirsty tyrant, and the embodiment of evil. This caricature of the truth is extremely useful—if for no other reason than to batter all “racists,” “neo-Nazis,” “anti-Semites,” “bigots,” and generally anyone unfriendly to Jewish, Zionist, or Israeli interests.
This caricaturization, in turn, only works if the public is presented with a carefully controlled and manipulated view of Hitler’s take on the Jews. His real words and his actual ideas are far more complex and sophisticated than most authorities would like you to think. Hitler was an intelligent and well-read man. He had a broad and largely accurate knowledge of history, culture, religion, human biology, and social evolution. His knowledge, depth, and insight put to shame most any present-day world leader.
But this fact does not suit those in power today. They need the public to think of him as a semi-literate, foaming-at-the-mouth demagogue. And to accomplish this goal, they need to ensure that no one reads his actual words. Until now, they have succeeded.
Now, for the first time, this objective has been defeated. Here, one can read nearly every idea that Hitler put forth about the Jews, in considerable detail and in full context.
This book is not merely of historical interest. It’s not just for experts and specialists in World War Two. Hitler’s analysis of the Jews, though hostile, is erudite, detailed, and largely aligns with events of past decades. There are many lessons here for the modern-day world.”
“Then a band of demons joined in and it sounded something like this:” (1) You must dress like a woman because “you cut your dick off because your honoring the great mother. Because everybody loves mom except for Nazis right?” (2) Right up to the last hour when he starts drawing conclusions that Dr. Ammon Hillmans scattered but brilliant thought processes are unable to make the interviewer Danny Jones demonstrates the fortitude and focus of a Jesuit exorcist in extracting information from Kur itself through the obviously demonically possessed interviewee.
“Dr. Ammon Hillman earned his MS in Bacteriology and Ph.D. in Classics from the University of Wisconsin Madison, where he specialized in Ancient Greek and Roman medicine and pharmacy. His first book, The Chemical Muse, was published with St. Martin’s Press immediately after his dissertation committee forced him to delete all references to recreational drugs from his thesis. Dr. Hillman was recently investigated by the Vatican for demon possession and portal opening while teaching as a professor of Classical Languages.” (3)
Hillman calls himself a classicist, meaning he exclusively studies “ancient” Greek and Roman manuscripts. The same manuscripts that at the dawn of the eighteenth century Jesuit librarianJean Hardouin, the man entrusted to translate the New testament for the church, a translation that is church cannon till this very day, accused Benedictine monks of fabricating. (4)
From the vicious thunderstorm that can be heard outside and strange noises in the studio at the beginning of the interview to Hillmans jerky body movements and inappropriate laughter one can see they are listening to a Gallûs, perhaps Pazuzu himself. (5) Hillman gleefully recounts an ancient world of orgys, incest, castration, necrophilia, sodomy, homosexuality, pedophilia, human sacrifice and nonstop drug abuse, many of those drugs ingested anally in sadomasochistic rituals that end with the priestess killing the man; after drugging him so he can maintain an erection while being murdered. It was all legal giggles Hillman.
Painting by Leonid Ilyukhin courtesy of OzymandiasPainting by Leonid Ilyukhin courtesy of Ozymandias
Unfortunately for Hillman and the denizens of Kur it was also all made up by proven frauds like the Scaliger’s, supported from the rear, literally, by sex starved monks masturbating and sodomizing each other as they fantasized about the frenzied Bacchic rites that took place in times long forgotten. From the fifteenth to eighteenth century, they forged the so said ancient manuscripts Hillman holds so dear in the basements of Benedictine monasteries. In 1708 they even published a manual; Palæographia græca, sive de ortu et progressu litterarum græcarum, standardizing the techniques on just how these “ancient” Greek manuscripts should be composed. Any civilization that functions like Hillman claims Greece and Rome did would be wiped out by a venereal disease after a couple of generations. Just as the Aztecs were on the cusp of being wiped out by Syphilis before Cortez, with the assistance of the same Goddess Hillman takes such great pleasure in blaspheming, put them out of their misery.
Nevertheless, as the monks that wrote this stuff, many of them necromancers themselves, well knew one can learn much from demons. It was Asmodeus that built Solomons temple for him. Hillman explains exactly how adrenochrome and the lust for human blood works. The roots of the Jesus Christ myth in pedophilic homosexuality. Hillman explains through his proper translation of the original Greek how right before his arrest and crucifixion Jesus was partying with the “purple” a drug Hillman is obsessed with and having an orgy with children, presumably in the Garden of Gethsemane which Hillman is also obsessed with. “Jesus was naked, with his pithier with his boys, and he’s always calling them boys, he calls them my little ones…” Jesus is a pimp for young boys. (6)
Hillman was eventually academically demoted from being the youngest lecturer at the University of Wisconsin to a post at a regional college due to pressure from the Vatican. Turns out he had been levitating into his student’s rooms late at night and seducing them like an incubus. That is when he wasn’t opening up portals into Kur, presumably so he could give his students guided tours. Frankly after listening to him for three hours plus I believe it. The Vatican is many things, but they are not fools…
The devils in Hillman are the same devils that possess the West, he is the ecclesiastic incarnation of the LGBT Flag, a portal into Kur and the sexual perversions that drew in even the great Goddess Inana. When one hears how he claims the ancient Greeks defined democracy one can very well imagine that Woke has found its high priest. He will tell you great truths, like Lucifer was the good guy and the god of the Old Testament lied about him, but he will also tell you Lucifer was a girl and shout “Hail Satan” to begin his videos. Just like a venomous snake he is fascinating to look at but don’t get too close.
Citations
1 – The Charlie Daniels Band, The Devil Went Down To Georgia.
2 – “Ancient Language Expert: Jesus Christ Used Children as Drugs | Ammon Hillman (2:03:30).” Danny Jones. YouTube , 20 May 2024. Web. <https://youtu.be/2dY-roDpHWI>.
6 – “Ancient Language Expert: Jesus Christ Used Children as Drugs | Ammon Hillman (2:38:16).”
Below are two links where you can purchase Those Who Would Arouse Leviathan. I would suggest you buy it in hardcopy, not because I make more, I actually make the most from Amazon E books, but because you will avoid giving Amazon any money. Frankly you should be shooting Amazon employees in the street, Google too.
Fear is the Weakness · In Flames Sounds Of A Playground Fading ℗ Nuclear Blast Released on: 2011-06-15
Fear is the weakness in all of us It’s sad to see you go It’s not meant to be easy but you drag us down Burden of the evidence grows
The same road for far too long It’s not meant to be We’re losing identity Faith has been denied, let’s not pretend This is the first time we just don’t belong
What world do you perceive? All turn cold and no one cares for anyone Waiting for the final blow Do you have strength at all? One more day, then we fade away
Fear is the weakness in all of us It’s sad to see you go It’s not meant to be easy but you drag us down Burden of the evidence grows
Blood red
all opposed shadows now seemingly rest
on the eve of the biggest test
loving mother has no life in her full, milky breast
cold-hearted figures, playing an immortal game of chess
gatherings of opaque, undeserving meddling heads
an uncommon sight, even for the forever voiceless dead
ungodly phantasy rest in their already emptied chests
they already have lost the favor, the priceless bet
Celestial duty,
a tour of immaculate stardom, enthralled in her indescribable beauty
captured in her sovereign moonlight,
storyteller of eternal wrong and right
elusive celestial armor
given with no promise, no hidden squalor
no voidless, mortal, capitulating parlor
in the bowels of gloomy hell
cracks are hidden,franticly well
no new tales, nobody has any wishes to tell
vile sulfur has no odor, it has no blaming smell
Beauty aroused in the heart of the green sea shell
an old man battling his phantoms in his crumbling chair
all plagiarized roads reek of unsatisfied despair
high treason is begging for more fruitless air
what this dark inconvenience would give for another good year
Truth or dare,
stoic valiancy or stolen a frantic little scare
demons of old…are you not willing to share?
heavy curtains fall on your fraudulent despair
barren replicants dont care,
rusted, leprechauns give only a small-minded fare
an undistinguished, funeral yell
dark, unnamed fatigue from hell
Holly Valley derived from broken dreams, Atlantian, lazy astral paradise
rigged swamp of infinite, swift merciless sunrise
unkind rumors pushed around, twice
perfect child, given away to a drunken mother, with no fair price
Eternal luminescence, play nice
where are the fields of golden, unspoiled rice?
Dark Rider is still chasing his, given, polarizing advice
A white silhouette prays in the middle of this estranged paradise
surrounded by white, most purest doves
a myriad of good things is raining from, aboves
cryptic, hushed-down blabbering tongues
puzzling riddle of all forbidden, earthly loves
where this worshiped white veil goes
why all brilliant white,
sentient clouds are walking on their tiptoes
No answer
nobody knows
all that is left
are the simplest
little vows
still, the will, wild wind carelessly blows
like a free robber, he is whispering
‘Reap What You Sow’
You are voidless/voiceless
and, now…
now, you
know.
Alternative ending…
Soon we will see if the numb scarecrow
can survive the upcoming shit show.
can primal darkness in the darkest dark
truly start to glow,
is all this
just a fruitless
and headless
chicken show?
O damned, would
you,
would, you
like to be in the know.
Old Story, Old Car, New Road, and a New Man
Sometimes, a story doesn’t have a proper beginning; sometimes, a particular story is worse than a winding, drunken, illegible, undiscovered road.
The clouds are predictably and prescribedly gloomy, the main character of the story has long been draped in black, racing into the unknown or fleeing from his complex past.
Friendly faces slowly fade, residing somewhere in a part of the mind that no longer wishes to remember what once was.
The future merges with the quiet road leading to countless new directions, and each direction is a new exhilarating stimulus, a new excitement, a new promise of happiness, or a new door to cursed tragedy.
All that is heard is the wail of the hot, fiery engine, which wildly, almost in a trance, gulps the cold air set before it, then forcefully digests it and leaves it behind to reunite with the pitch-black tapestry of the remaining night air, transforming it back into what it was a few moments before it was swallowed by the hungry, fiery beast driven by our silent night traveler.
The sky, flooded with a sea of shining stars, quietly tells its long-chosen story above his contemplative head, and under their white, crystalline glow, the black car silently speeds towards a new adventure.
A new life, a victory, a betrayal, a defeat, an enlightenment… anything, as long as it’s different from what has already been left behind hundreds of kilometers ago, like an unhappy child abandoned by a selfish father behind our enigmatic but determined hero.
Life has always been an irreconcilable struggle; every moment of its existence, from its sudden birth to this cold, dark night, has been filled with some mischief or an informal excursion into the arms of unspoken tragedy.
After traversing a hundred or so kilometers, mostly monotonous but at the same time loaded with a new smoldering thrill, the loud engine wailed like a faltering horse, and the monstrous machine quickly and silently lost its recognizable tone.
The wild rush through the dark expanse turned into an unplanned, almost silent standstill.
The gleaming herd of stars instantly lost its color, darkness… total, indescribable darkness surrounded the warm, unconquered heart of our hero.
It was as if the dark jaws swallowed every beam of light that defied the cold teeth of the yet unsung dark, but so far exceedingly pleasant and promising night.
The scent of a new, irresistible adventure deftly wriggled under the cloak of black chaos, which for a moment seemed to become a skillfully trained hunter, and our protagonist a bewildered prey.
Finally, a thousand carefully chosen possibilities fused into one selected manifestation, presenting itself as a seemingly dark solution or potential fate at first glance.
For a moment, the stars, celestial birds, flickered briefly, then darkness crept back around him.
Again, the stars flickered, and once more the light plunged into the dark abyss, and the sequence repeated itself…
The phenomenon could be compared to Morse code, but it was a completely different experience, almost from another world.
Darkness usually symbolizes something bad to the human mind and consciousness, something that predicts inevitable uncertainty and an imminent struggle for survival… but this was something new.
Maybe our hero had finally arrived exactly where he was headed, albeit reluctantly with a few curses, unknowingly unable to admit this fact to himself yet… maybe here, in this mysterious, unremarkable place, on this cold night, he had finally found what he had been yearning for all these long years.
The explanation to an old question, an ancient mystery that had troubled humanity since the first primordial light.
Why and to what end is all this, where does all this lead, the good and the bad… why does this world change so slowly, why do all roads too often lead to one dusty, unremarkable dark vista?
The sequence, the flicker of the stars and their intensity, slowly intensified, and then the experience that broke free from this surreal reality resembled those few brief, energetically charged moments after the main performer of a concert or theatrical performance finally crystallizes on a fully illuminated stage.
Everything that was left far behind him, good, bad, happiness, sadness, love, the first romantic ordeal, no longer mattered, everything faded before the breath of this orgasmic, cosmic magic, this unexpected nocturnal spectacle… which was just beginning.
The road on the old path began to pulse gently, the black, well-trodden asphalt subtly transformed into a transparent, faintly lit material, our mysterious traveler could see the outline of a prominent face in it.
“Aren’t you afraid?” A gentle voice sounded almost from nowhere, and its existence was almost impossible to determine… as if it came from all sides and was multiplied several times over.
“No, should I be?”
“Your road has come to an end.” Again, the charming voice gently addressed our mysterious traveler, who, for some very unusual reason, was not at all shaken by what was happening before his impeccably blue, sometimes hypnotically green, honest eyes.
“I’ve been looking for this road for a long time, it’s time we met, it was my destiny as well as yours,” lighting a cigarette, our hero replied nonchalantly to the entity whose voice assaulted our hero’s senses from all sides.
“True, I agree, and now that we have finally met, what is your decision… do you stay or do you go, are you ready, have you had enough of this existence, these earthly trials?”
“Honestly, I’m not sure yet, but you already know that, you see every path I take, you follow my every move, but still you don’t see everything, you don’t see what has always been only mine… my heart.”
Suddenly, almost benignly, the surrounding light turned into a threatening red color…
“Are you threatening me, defying me?”
“Always, you can’t possess what is only mine, and you have your limits, which you very skillfully conceal.”
“This is the only way to find my road, the only possible way to forget you.”
“Isn’t this here, this creation, this life enough, why do you always want more?”
“Why does every new revelation trigger and set off an avalanche of a thousand new, bolder questions?”
Now the defiant red eminence changed tone, as if questioning the reasons for the traveler’s existence… why would anyone, any being, ever want to leave the warm embrace of this almost perfect creation?
“The stars shine today just for you, isn’t that celestial wonder, that heavenly orchestra, enough to fill your wandering heart, to calm it at least for a moment…”
“It’s beautiful, and I am grateful to you for this gift, but I have to tell you, my road doesn’t end here, I have just begun the journey, nothing given by this world awakens any impression in me or longing for a new adventure… I set out into the mystery of the unknown and found the known.”
“The road may be as old as this unremarkable vehicle behind me, but I am a new man, no longer impressed by what maliciously yawns behind your elusive curtain.”
“This time, I choose the road!”
“So be it!”
The pitch-black cold night turned in an instant into the piercing light of a bright new day, a few meters down the road a red telephone stood alone on the old, now different road, beckoning our mysterious traveler to enter its crimson chambers and pick up the red receiver.
When he came closer to that old, now archaic apparatus, the lonely apparatus awakened and the phone rang…
The dilemma remained, to pick up the screaming red receiver or not….
To leave his vehicle, which was now brand new, standing there in the middle of this road or to dive further into the essence of what the newly presented version of the previous world offers…
Dear reader, I think I will leave this epic dilemma to you, maybe, just maybe the final choice of your journey was always yours.
Maybe, at the end of all imaginable ends, not all travelers are, just “Dust in the Wind”.
Perhaps, at the end of all imaginable ends, not all travelers are just “Dust in the Wind” we are far more, but to be able to find a grain of your true essence, the truth, you can no longer be fooled by simple illusions orchestrated by the malice of hateful sorcerers who will try infiltrate and steal your mind and heart.
Your life begins with you, and their miserable reign ends with you, discovering who you truly are.
Written entirely by my mysterious, elusive masters/handlers and translated by Hal ZX Spectrum 56000 with 48 kilobytes of memory RAM.
The Devil’s Machine, responsible for all my written poems and short stories…
EASY
It is too easy
do you feel dizzy
are you calling all the shots?
do you like your unnaturally elevated mug?
submissive dog can be a god, like a foxtrot without an ultimate nod
life has been sold for another dead slot
a falsified century terraformed into an awakened robot
machiavellian onslaught
what can be sold, who can be bought?
don’t you prefer our lot?
Day is slowly creeping in
electromagnetic pulse is hitting reluctant screaming sin
happy targeted pig is wallowing in his destructive dream
Black Crow is ecstatic and unbearable loud
something is quietly coming about
don’t dare to dream
don’t you make another vigilant sound
don’t do your Walkabout
maybe North is the actual South
presented choices are looking slim
The sky is again falling
another innocent Soul is calling
when the wounded heart of this world is slowly crawling
Forgive and forget
forgive and don’t fret
forgive and just accept
Game, set, and match
are you alive
are you already born dead?
Forgive and forget
forgive and don’t fret
forgive and just accept
are you alive
are you already born dead?
do you see the road ahead?
horny vultures are measuring
what can be stolen,
what is erected most pleasurable
Angry again?
your name has been called in vain
midnight shadow has been hidden inside the eye of terrible rain
absolution tied down within the final days
only broken fools will obey
only dead man will have nothing to say
Pray, better your ongoing day
maybe in illusion, you will dig out your lost way
Action speaks louder than words
All words are sacred aiming at necrotic accords
lookup, there reach for your heavenly sword
words are too steep,
some unhealed wounds cut too deep
words, castaway sailors without deserved sleep
Brave Souls can not just preach
Learn how to teach
open blue eyes and reach
Man of action
one way to receive true traction
sword in your hands will give you
most potent satisfaction
turn on sacred levitation
Turn on your drowned imagination
truly look, forget about the captain and his degraded Hook
and find your real nation
find the voice of speaking runes
tune into the magick of these elevated tunes
find the means of real communication
there you will find a fresh breath of magnificent salvation
The alive soul can not die in his cemented tomb
the alive soul is just stuck in an artificially made womb
from the dying square make a romb(Rhombus_)
let them know
something inside you is ready to blow
you are a messenger whispering inside of the sacred flow
Your time is coming, very soon
The beautiful flower is fasting in her fool bloom
Your time is coming, it is high noon
Forgive and forget
forgive and don’t fret
forgive and just accept
Game, set, and match
are you alive
are you already born dead?
do you see the road ahead?
Forgive and forget
forgive and don’t fret
forgive and just accept
are you alive
are you already born dead?
do you, see the road ahead?
All masks will eventually fall and I mean all, as I told you way back before.
What has happened to the world of the tyrannical god and his six hundred and thirteen commandments, the god of “Thou Shalt Not” as Nitzsche called him? Looks to me, as noted by Dylan in his prophecy Agelina, “his servants are half dead.” Christians of all people have only themselves to blame. How could anyone reconcile the teachings of Jesus with worshiping a homicidal lunatic of a deity that once drowned the world out of spite? No this is their reckoning and the judgments against them multiply with each stolen breath they take. Leviathan has been loosed upon the world of their god and as predicted by the Rabbis none of it will stand. All that remains now is the mop up operation to claim those that are worthy of redemption. For Leviathan above all else is the redeemer. An-Najm or the Star sura is acknowledged by Islamic scholars to be among the oldest suras in the Qur’an. In Verses forty-seven and forty-nine the Lord of Sirius vows to return, to raise the dead and bring about a second kingdom. In the Qabalah Da’at was always the theoretical eleventh Sephira of Knowledge. It divides the sun from the crown of […]
I awoke with my bare skin sticking to the sheets. It had turned oppressively hot and humid overnight, gone was the mistral. I pulled on my sweatpants and went to the windows in the kitchen for a smoke. People moved up and down the alleyway below, some carrying their fresh baked bread, others on their way to get it. No European could ever live in Tennessee, where the only baked bread is the white bread Kroger’s bakes in the morning, and tries to pass off as French or Italian. As if weighed down by the heat, which was already about thirty degrees Celsius, the bread procession moved sullenly through the oppressive morning. The only sound was the cackling of the crows and the cooing of the pigeons. The cry of the French crows, in all likelihood Jackdaws, the smallest member of the corvid family, is far different from the abrasive call of its American cousin. One could easily imagine they were engaged in civil avian conversation.
We drove back up the mountain to the commune to have lunch with Orage’s sister. I was told not to take any pictures, many of the young people there did not want anyone knowing where they were. It looked different in the light of the day without the crowd, even more ramshackle. Ancient tractors and backhoes were scattered haphazardly amongst the dilapidated buildings. Orage told me a few of them even worked. Dogs and cats wandered about freely. There were two dining areas, one outside the main building in the sun, and one in the shaded courtyard, both self-served from a large communal kitchen. Washing the dishes was the shit job, and nobody wanted it. I was told it was difficult to get the young people to do it. There were about a hundred residents all told, about a third of them were old timers who had to do everything. Orage introduced me to one of the guys who had built the place, a seventy plus Swiss electrician who had done all the wiring. Orage said, “when he goes, I don’t know what these kids are gonna do. Most of them can’t even drive a backhoe or tractor let alone fix the wiring.”
We sat in the courtyard with the older crowd, not because there was any particular pecking order. The elders were dedicated communists, but because the young people apparently wanted to be alone. Some of them were quite attractive and all of them were hitting on each other. I said to Orage, “this must cause all kinds of problems, no?” Orage laughed and said, “you don’t know the half of it and it can get very violent.” I guess the sixties never counted on the mentality of the twenty-first century. All the food was their own produce, shuffled between the communes in the Occitan and lunch was quite good. When we left we had to go through the kitchen to exit the courtyard and I couldn’t help but notice an exasperated older man shouting instructions in French to the reluctant young girl who was washing the dishes.
It was three in the afternoon by the time Orage got Jon Valentine-Lee on the phone. He was in Marseilles, the capital of the Occitan, and stomping grounds of Albert Camus. Marseille was apparently like a second home to Jon who hails from England, but is truly a European in the Nietzschean sense. He could hop a train to Arles and meet us there on Thursday, this was Tuesday. The temperature outside was thirty-eight degrees Celsius, and there was an extreme heat warning. The cafés were closed and would not open till five or six. There is no air conditioning in the Occitan, as hot as it gets no one can afford the energy cost. Most people stay inside at midday where it’s a little cooler, but not much.
When the brutal sun finally began to set, Orage’s sister drove us and her dog in her beat-up jeep to a nearby lake just outside of Oraison. One side was a beach where many of the locals were cooling off after a long hot day, but the other side was wooded and was easily reached with the jeep. Wild flowers and berries, which we ate right off the bushes, abounded. We ate gourmet cheese and they drunk pastis. Apparently French people love pastis just as much as wine. It is a pastiche of Absinthe which was banned in France, and was introduced in the 1930s, I found it repulsive and stuck to beer. I scaled a diminutive hill to better see the sunset and noticed a small river ran parallel to the lake. I was told the river was critical to crop irrigation in Provence.
We had a day to kill before Jon arrived in Arles, about a hundred-and-fifty-kilometer drive in Orage’s BMW. To pass the time we decided that I should see some more of the Occitan where it had settled in the foothills of Les Alpes Maritimes. It was some of the most beautiful country I’ve ever seen, and I have been all over Tennessee and the Blue Ridge Mountains. The land itself has a soul that seems to embrace the people, in contrast to the sinister, although breathtakingly scenic aura of the Blue Ridge and Smokey Mountains.
By midday I was scorched and dying of thirst, it was now well over thirty degrees so we stopped in a little hilltop village called Banon. In the shade of the awning I ordered a Coke on the rocks at the local café but the French are very sparing on the ice and it was not as cold as I had anticipated. In the heat the ice cubes were gone before the drink was. Out on the street a contingent of proud French women dismounted, and marched their horses through the center of town. Banon itself was medieaval, with the monastery occupying the top of the hill and reached only by picking one’s way up through the cobblestone alleyways. An old man, whom we both assumed was the only one left in the village who knew how to repair the streets, mixed cement in the broiling midday sun. At the top of the hill, the modern art display in the art gallery of the monastery did more to disgrace Roman Catholicism than Jorge Bergoglio…
We went back up to Orage’s apartment. It was after ten and the cool of the darkness mitigated the heat of the day. Music drifted along with the evening breeze through the wide open windows. Orage broke out a bottle of fine vodka and we did shots, washed down with Trappist monk beer, which in my estimate is the finest beer ever brewed. The video ‘How Bizarre‘ was playing on Orage’s giant screen TV mounted above the kitchen table. Not the official one of Mexican gang bangers aimlessly driving a car, but a seemingly homemade version I’d been using for the past couple of years that told our story, and has been known to induce hallucinations in some of my more sensitive readers.
We’d done at least a half dozen shots and a half a case of beer, when a girl heard the music and called up to us from the alleyway below, “hey, are you American? I’m American, and I’m dying to hear some American music.”
Orage answered her in his California accent, “I’m German but my friend is American, c’mon up.” She did and it turned out she was an attractive fortyish Scotch-Irish girl from Roanoke Virginia. She was the lead singer for a band that specialized in Jazz. Her, her husband who was already in bed due to a heart condition, and her son, who would be arriving in two days, were the nucleus of a very chic band that would be doing the Occitan for the next two weeks. She did shots and scoffed down monk beer like a man.
After half a dozen rounds, we induced her to sing one of Happy Parrot’s poems for us. I was astonished, she had a voice that was the embodiment of the finest Southern soul and she sung the poem as if she had been practicing for weeks, having never even seen it. She didn’t miss one word. It was close to three in the morning when she said she had to go, and I insisted that Orage should walk her home. American men don’t let their female friends walk around by themselves at three in the morning. She consented, and promised to be back the next day with her husband to demonstrate his prowess with the guitar. True to her word they came by the next day and he was as good as advertised. We resolved to put a Happy Parrot poem about the Cathars to music when we returned from the caves of Ornolac in the Ariege.
The next day we went to the sprawling café below the apartment for dinner. I would finally get my French food made in France. We both got the special for the evening which was Boeuf Bourguignon, a French classic of beef braised in red wine. Without the drinks it was under fifteen euros, about the price of dinner at McDonald’s. Far from McDonald’s the cuisine was exquisite, and we mopped up the sauce with the copious French bread provided with the meal.
There was a concert on the other side of town that night, highly recommended by Orage’s sister. We walked the mile distance fully intending on drinking our fill of beer. The French drink Blonde beer and it’s almost as good as monk beer. No American beer aficionado, which I am, should ever deprive themselves of a trip to Europe. I don’t care how dam good you feel your favored microbrew is, European beer blows it away. The band was good, nowhere near as good as Ankle Beat, or our new friends, but they were certainly worth the three euro cover. Again the crowd, of about two hundred, varied from toddlers to pensioners. We stayed for their entire set drinking about three or four beers each, then made the mile walk back to Orage’s apartment. The sounds of merriment seemed to come from every direction of the darkness. It was Wednesday night, hump day in America, and the French were partying hardy.
When we got back we decided to watch ‘The Secret Glory‘ again before we embarked on our quest in the morning. I hadn’t seen it since I wrote about it back in early 2018. (166) We had each had three beers at the concert and nobody had put their drink down unattended. Of this I am quite certain. At the dawn of the twenty-first century, when I worked security at the Café Royale, one of New York’s swankest strip clubs, the girls had made a sport out of spiking each other’s and the customers’ drinks with a lid, an overdose, of Ketamine or ‘Special K’ as they called it. One very attractive black girl left by ambulance, and would never dance again after that. Another, who Richie Capri, the owner was having sex with, recovered, but she was a basket case after that. With the Russian, Hispanic, and white trash biker bitches, it was pretty much open season on black girls in the Café Royale. And me? I learned never to let anything out of my sight that I was planning on ingesting. I watch my friends’ drinks too and Orage was pretty much my closest friend.
It was closing on midnight when we got back, there was no rush. The plan was to pick up Jon in late afternoon the next day. Orage put the film up on his giant screen TV and broke out the vodka. Up to then he was fine. We both noticed that the film had changed since we last saw it. There were parts I didn’t remember, very strange music which I suspect was the supposedly magical flute of Christian Koenig. Eerie noises seemed to come out of nowhere and served no purpose in moving forward the narrative. By about the third shot Orage was visibly drunk. He slurred his words as he kept saying, “this is no movie it’s a spell”. I’d seen him drink three times more than he had drunk that night but I had never seen him visibly drunk before. I tried to answer him, but he abruptly stood up and staggered into his room to go to bed. I stayed up and checked the partial transcript I had made in 2018 for the parts I didn’t remember. There was nothing and I ended up going to bed sometime after one.
My room had a hallway at each entrance. The hallway behind the door at the foot of my bed led to Orage’s room, another bedroom, then to the rest of the flat. The other, at the head of the bed was an open archway into the entryway for the backdoor, with another archway that led to a bathroom. The bathroom window was opaque, behind the shower curtain, and overlooked a sealed alleyway. There were no windows in the hallways, or in my room, so it was pitch black at night unless I left the bathroom light on which I did. Not so much so I could find the bathroom, but because the life I have led has conditioned me to prioritize knowing what is around me at all times, so much the more so when I just wake up. Darkness is only a friend to those who know what’s in it. That night I awoke about 3 a.m. to see Orage standing at the foot of my bed. The light was on in my room, and he was opening the door to the hallway. He muttered something unintelligible and flicked off the light switch closing the door as he left, plunging me into visually impregnable darkness. He had turned off the bathroom light.
I got up and felt my way down the bed. The bed seemed shorter as the foot of it came up abruptly after only about a meter. I groped my way along the foot to the wall. It was about a meter, maybe a little more from the foot of the bed to the door and light switch. I made my way feeling along the wall for them, but after going a good five meters which should have put me past the far wall of the room, I could find neither. Remembering a reading lamp by my pillow, I felt my way back to the bed which now felt two meters long. When I got to the head of the bed, I found the lamp easily and switched it on. In the light the proportions of the room were as they had been, not what I had felt in the dark. Anyone who knows me will tell you, I have ice water flowing through my veins and never panic even in situations where the strongest men would.
The whole thing had taken about a minute, I couldn’t believe I could not find the door and light switch. I had searched for them vigorously with great determination. I opened the door and entered the hallway, illuminated only by the light of the alleyway coming in through the window of the room adjacent to Orage’s. His door was shut and on the other side I could hear him snoring robustly. Figuring he had been sleep walking, I wasn’t going to wake him. Down the hallway which should have been backlit by the light over the kitchen stove that we customarily left on, past the second bathroom, I could see a blur in the darkness. As I approached it, I could see it was the front door which was wide open, and blocking the access to the loft and kitchen area. I couldn’t help but wondering if Orage had been wandering around outside in his birthday suit. I closed the door, and switched on the lighting for the loft next to it. The dining room table was askew, as were some of the chairs. It looked like someone had been going through our electronic equipment.
Since I was wearing only my underpants, I switched on the light above the stove and turned off the overhead loft lights. I settled by the windows and lit up a French cigarette, far better than their American counterparts. I looked down into the alleyway, and two of the girls who hung out at the Greek restaurant across the way were right below the window, the two most attractive ones. One about sixteen, was a dark haired beauty that could have adorned the cover of Vogue Magazine. You couldn’t help but notice her in the crowd of teenagers, self-assured with perfect and unblemished physical features. I had once watched her smoking a cigarette with what the French call ‘savoir faire’ that no sixteen year old girl should ever possess. The Greek place closed around midnight and sometimes the boys would hang out in front smoking and talking but never past one and never with the girls. I wondered what the girls were doing down there but said nothing. I was in my underpants, and I am not a pervert. The next morning, Orage remembered nothing of it and told me he had never sleep-walked in his life. Orage had been married for quite some time, and bedded many other women in LA. If he sleep-walked someone would have told him…
It should have, but it didn’t dawn upon me until the next day when I did a podcast, and someone who knows her coyly commented that it wasn’t Orage who had been in my room. A few years ago I published my first book; Those Who Would Arouse Leviathan. This will be my second. The first chronicles my encounter with an entity that Judeo-Christians call Lilith. In the Qabalah, there is no Satan, no Lucifer, not even a Devil, as Christians and Muslims understand him. In fact there is no king of demons. Asmodeus and Beelzebub are princes, not kings. There are seven princes for the seven palaces of hell. There are no kings. Only god is king. The name of Lilith’s consort; Kebad, has the same numerical value, twenty-six, as God. According to the rules of the Qabalah God and Kebad are the same entities. (167) (168)
Lilith together with her sidekick Naamah are the mothers and Lilith the queen of all demons. Lilith and Naamah are rabidly hostile to Judeo-Christians. They kill babies in their sleep and are considered to be the cause of sudden infant crib death by the Rabbis that know the Qabalah’s secrets. According to them, Lilith was Adam’s first wife but being as old as God, and his equal, she refused to accept a subservient position to man, particularly during intercourse. So she fled to the shores of the Red Sea and through her many fornications, which only could have been with God himself, which the Rabbis neglect to say, she birthed the entire hierarchy of demons who torment men till this very day. Many observant Jews put a tiny scroll somewhere in the entrance to their home respectfully asking Lilith and Naamah to stay out.
That is as the Rabbis tell it. But far older than the Torah, the Talmud and even the Qabalah itself, is the Epic of Gilgamesh. Written long before theBabylonian Talmud, the Epic of Gilgamesh tells the story of the flood rather differently than the Pharisees, now euphemistically called Rabbis to dupe their “goyim” Christian dogs to do their bidding. One of the most powerful of the Anunnaki, Enlil became annoyed with the human race. The epic doesn’t say why, but I will tell you now, it was because the Babylonians chose Marduk to be their most revered God over him sending him into a jealous rage. Enlil decided the easiest way to sooth the irritant was to drown the entire world that his father Anu had created and given his children the Anunnaki dominion over.
After the flood, the survivors gathered on the side of the mountain where they had taken refuge from the water, and made a great bonfire out of all the sacred incense that they had salvaged to give thanks to the Gods that had saved them. Most of the Anunnaki showed to bask in the aroma of the sweet incense, which is as nectar to a butterfly to them (Marduk did not show, he now had a score to settle and he would become the Devil, sworn enemy of god, to the Judeo-Christians who currently worship Enlil under the name of Jehovah or Yahweh). When Enlil tried to join the rest of the Anunnaki on the mountainside Ishtar, the greatest of all the female Anunnaki barred his way. She tore from her neck the sacred necklace that marked her stature as queen of the angels, and swore on it eternal vengeance upon Enlil for murdering her children…
When we returned from Ariege both girls were gone and it was as if they had never existed. Because of my Judeo-Christian upbringing, which long ago forgot the real Gods are shapeshifters, I have never been able to accept the fact that she is a shapeshifter. She has used that flaw in my perception many times in the past right up to the present to confound me. The important thing was and still is that they are both still with me, they are both still watching. Good, I will show them something they have never seen before, not in heaven or in hell.
Below are two links where you can purchase Those Who Would Arouse Leviathan. I would suggest you buy it in hardcopy, not because I make more, I actually make the most from Amazon E books, but because you will avoid giving Amazon any money. Frankly you should be shooting Amazon employees in the street, Google too.
Did Ukranians ever had a true chance, or was it all an open experiment culminating with an unnecessary war that still rages today?
Inverted DUGA(rainbow) is the world presented upside down…and it is today the symbol of Lgbt- Uvxy groups…
Where are you in the true, real-world or in the place where Lovecraftian monsters are roaming free, harvesting their unsuspecting prey?
Everybody is always talking about the Empire built in the West but is there another version that hides its poisonous tentacles in the East?!?…
Collective West is a made-up term used by well-placed operatives across the Internet, my advice is if you hear this term being used, “change the station”, you are probably being fed with false information, intentionally or unintentionally.
There is no “Collective West” or even East…another mantra given to you by the hidden masters of this realm.
So be smart and don’t use this term, create your, own mantras.
Why, because they are far, far superior to what has been given to you as a meager substitute for your power of creation and manifestation.
Extremely low frequency is the ITU designation for electromagnetic radiation with frequencies from 3 to 30 Hz, and corresponding wavelengths of 100,000 to 10,000 kilometers, respectively. In atmospheric science, an alternative definition is usually given, from 3 Hz to 3 kHz.
“As his country is gripped by revolution and war, a Ukrainian victim of the Chernobyl nuclear disaster discovers a dark secret and must decide whether to risk his life and play his part in the revolution by revealing it.”
All the endings of the game STALKER Shadow of Chernobyl, often called fiction, will give you more answers to certain hidden themes than what is presented as reality.
S.T.A.L.K.E.R.: Shadow of Chernobyl (titled S.T.A.L.K.E.R.: Shadow of Chornobyl on consoles) is a first-person shootersurvival horror video game developed by GSC Game World and published by THQ in 2007 following a long development. The game is set in an alternative reality, where a second disaster of mysterious origin occurred at the Chernobyl Exclusion Zone, causing strange changes in the area around it. The game features a non-linear storyline and includes role-playing gameplay elements such as trading and two-way communication with non-player characters.
In the game, the player assumes the identity of the Marked One, an amnesiac man trying to find and kill the mysterious Strelok within the Zone, a forbidden territory surrounding the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant. It is set after a fictitious second Chernobyl disaster, which further contaminated the surrounding area with radiation, and caused strange otherworldly changes in local fauna, flora, and the laws of physics. The background and some terminology of the game are borrowed from the novella Roadside Picnic and its film adaptation Stalker.
A prequel, S.T.A.L.K.E.R.: Clear Sky, was released in 2008. A sequel, S.T.A.L.K.E.R.: Call of Pripyat, followed in 2010. There are also multiple fan remakes trying to restore the cut content from the original version of the game.
The Zone encompasses roughly 30 square kilometers and features a slice of the Chernobyl area extending south from Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant; geographical changes for artistic license include moving the city of Pripyat into this area (it is actually to the north-west of the power station), although the city itself is directly modeled on its real-life counterpart, albeit smaller in size, and features in-game recreations of many actual locations from the city.[1] The term Stalkers was also used for the scientists and engineers who explored the interior of the Chernobyl sarcophagus after its hasty construction in 1986.In addition, the Zone is also a term used to refer to the 30 kilometer Exclusion Zone around the power plant.
In the game’s backstory, after the initial Chernobyl disaster, attempts were made to repopulate the area, primarily with scientists and military personnel. However, in 2006, almost 20 years after the first incident, a mysterious second disaster occurred, killing or mutating most of the inhabitants. S.T.A.L.K.E.R. begins years later after people have begun coming to the Zone in search of money, valuable artifacts, and scientific information. In keeping with the post-nuclear decay within the Zone, extreme radiation has caused mutations among animals and plants in the area.[4] As a result of the second disaster, the Zone is also littered with dangerous small areas of altered physics, known as anomalies. Explorers and scavengers operating within the Zone, known as Stalkers, possess an anomaly detector, which emits warning beeps of a varying frequency depending on their proximity to an anomaly.
S.T.A.L.K.E.R. 2: Heart of Chornobyl is an upcoming first-person shooter survival horror video game developed and published by Ukrainian game developer GSC Game World
A group of words, seemingly not so important, which with every second of their existence affect their immediate and wider environment and constantly flow from one state of actualization to another, and third, etc., etc., etc. They create, cumulatively, an ultimate energetic carrier, a storm made of countless possible permutations.
Until they get some firm form, meaningful shape, and some function that makes sense, an extension that will actively utilize our access to the form we call, our reality or further dilute it, filter it to the point of unrecognizability.
Alchemically transform that small input, that weak, fragile word into something completely new, rational, or irrational, or hand it over to optional oblivion, so that the thought process can start its inevitable cycle again. The word materializes into something real, palpable in the white beam of light, which we call, simply the visible field.
People often forget that today’s words are, in reality, a form of symbols, symbols, written symbols… they always look for irrefutable proof in some dusty, ancient closet, longing for a new ancient symbol, which will give the occult being an even greater potential existence and greater cultural justification. Rarely do people get into the essence, the core of the words with which they operate and balance their daily routine, using them as a necessary life tool to survive another, comfortably easy or extremely tiring day.
This almost manic search is always placed in history, rarely do modern linguists dive into the present in daylight.
Rarely, those same hunters who tirelessly chase after strange representations, painted on all kinds of cave rocks, those linguistic argonauts, trapped in mostly damp libraries, emerge to see where language is, as an inevitable form that affects the daily condition of modern man.
Evidence, evidence, evidence… Theatrics…
Often these same proofs come to us from obedient grammar soldiers who will seldom risk their careers, they are repeatedly bleak representations of amoral, gutless amoebas, pale ghosts, masochistic slaves of their, own sick ambition, spreading their disease to those whose lives they should enrich with their existence and work.
Those obedient soldiers should provide them with a higher form of understanding through their work but, too many times these soulless investigators and followers of modern words have nothing to offer but petty-bourgeois contempt.
Inevitably, when the core is discarded, which is the truth, everything becomes a hopeless simulation that feeds on bad habits and breathes in the lie projected by also simulated individuals, subjects alienated from their, own truths and original essence of existence.
The Matrix is not needed as a robust computer program for us to reach the point of unholy manifestation; it is created daily on micro and macro levels and is supported by almost linear human frequent interaction. If something is not deemed as real, or truthful, it deepens the gap between the established, provable reality and realms of randomized phantasy, in this situation self-augmenting inertia deepens the journey into the mire of phantom simulated fantasy.
Humans are stimulated by electrical tools and directed like cattle towards a predetermined time of their existence. Convinced subjects believe that this is the only way to self-realization, and accordingly, everything is better, it seems truer if this same persistent anomaly can be confirmed by other like-minded, silent followers of the same idea, cowardly like-minded, they will merge with the amalgam of highly camouflaged and simulated thoughts.
Stimulus, stimulation, word
If something is neutral, in order for that inert body to come out of its own neutrality, something must give a charge to that subject and move that neutrality in some direction. This can happen on an organic level of manifestation or a synthetic one. The organic form has greater freedom of manifestation, while the synthetic one is directed to the path where that neutral object is predetermined and directed, according to the established, programmed parameters of the desired outcome that commands this manifestation.
The element of Stimulation and the motor skills of a given word form fertile ground for any formation of manifested regressive or degressive stimulus.
Stimulation… warmth, cold, pain, discomfort…
The word…the right word can multiply all of the above and cause a controlled or uncontrolled synthetic sequence of our once neutral existence, pushing us stealthily towards a simulated form of existence.
In this position, with the passage of time, the original form of our unmanufactured existence is lost…and it almost infantilely turns into something that resembles a Frankensteinian reality, aided by the constant false imputations of our own truncated thoughts and subversive environment that has long since been deprived of its primary originality.
The only thing it offers, is simulated existence in predetermined Malthusian deviations, on the blank outskirts of tercial parameters.
How many degrees of retroactive analog-digital simulation have we gone through in just one life?
How many times has just one tiny word influenced our entire being, giving us the opportunity, the excuse for a right or wrong decision?
A decision that later multiplies into a multitude of probabilities defining our, own existence, often leading us into the soft bosom of stolen existence, alienated from the “spiritual antilogic” and handed over to the simulated, almost fiscal oligarchic logic that becomes our silent malicious companion until the end of our existence on this, as they say, green world.
Does the simulation emanate from the creation machine or is the essence, the primary operating code of that same creation, to manipulate human thought so that almost every second these same subjects justify the falsity of their situation and appeal to all other participants in this deterministic story, so they can never stray from certain guidelines that prevail in the center of named creation?
In this way, the creation machine uses less of its, own energy, and controlled human interaction provides and fuels that same, creation machine, never breaching energetic comfort levels, extending its unnatural, synthetic life beyond the given period of its programmed existence.
A wrong spoken or written word, the emergence of wrong ideas can “kill” the world you know…
An almost acute problem torments people who regularly fear the journey into the jaws of the unknown, the solemn demystification of the mystical enigma in its original form.
It is not the unknown or “deceitful” hand of deliberately denigrated mysticism that kills and drains the soul’s juices, but the lethargy of comfort, a false, too well beaten existence.
The lightness of periodic, pseudo-animated animation, trapped in a constant loop, full of dreary substitute words, hidden in a herd of stolen thoughts in an alienated existential paradise, full of submerged ideas, is the primary cause of unfulfilled human destinies.
A ship(vessel) without a destination (destiny) is lost, always at the mercy of the stormy sea, and so it is with the human soul-SOS.
The main focus of this superbly produced film is an investigation of the historic causes of climate variability. Traditionally this has been the domain of astrophysicists, geologists and meteorologists. In the 21ast century, these scientists have been systematically marginalized by governments and corporate interests who (via selective grant funding and publishing) have created a new generation of climate scientists who only do studies supporting the hypothesis that industrialization and burning fossil fuels is causing dangerous increases in both CO2 levels and global temperatures. All the scientific data presented in the film originates with these blackballed astrophysicists, geologists and meteorologists, all with decades of research experience into the causes of climate variation.
They all take issue with
the deeply flawed approach of the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (a fundamentally political, rather than scientific, body) to measuring average global temperatures. More accurate temperature measurements reveal the Earth is still recovering from the Little Ice Age (1300-1900 AD)
a fundamental misunderstanding by IPCC-approved climate scientists about what historically constitutes a “normal” atmospheric CO2 concentration. The IPCC also fails to take account of ice core and other evidence about the 100-year lag between significant global warming and increased CO2 concentrations (instead the IPCC claims that high CO2 levels CAUSE global warming).
the extremely minor role minor greenhouse gasses such as CO2 and methane play in climate erroneous variation, in contrast to condensed water vapor (ie clouds).
the IPPC’s claim that extreme weather events are increasing.
At the end of the film, the filmmakers also interview policy analysts and African political activists activists who discuss the working class perception that the climate movement is directed against them and the phenomenon known as “climate colonialism, ” which would deny Africans the right to develop in order to save the planet.
1. IPCC Temperature Measurements Are Flawed – More Rigorous Measurements Suggest the Earth Is Still Recovering from the Last Little Ice Age.
IPCC scientists take most of their temperature measurements in so-called urban islands in the Northern Hemisphere. Meteorologists who do monitor rural temperatures reveal that global temperatures are still lower than the extreme heat records set in 1930-40 (the main cause of the US Dust Bowl), before industrially produced CO2 began to increase in the 1940s.. The period 1940-1970 was followed by marked cooling, leading journalists to write about a new Ice Age, with the period 1970-2000 exhibiting mild recovery. Temperatures have yet to return to the records set in the 1930s. Records from merchant ships reveal that ocean temperatures followed the exact same pattern. As do tree rings, weather balloons and satellites that measure surface temperatures at a distance.
66 million years ago mammal species took over the earth, in part because dinosaur competer were wiped out, but mainly because mammals thrive in a warm climate.
50 million years ago, the Earth began to experience a series of Ice Ages.
In the last two thousand years, the Earth experienced a long warming period during the Roman republic and empire, followed by a little ice age during the so-called Dark Ages (5th to 10th century), followed by brief warming, followed by the official Little Ice Age (14th-19th century), which ushered in crop failures, malnutrition and Europe-wide outbreaks of plague. According to many well-respected meteorologists and geologists who study ice cores, the Earth is still recovering from the last Little Ice Age (1300-1900), which is why there is still ice at the poles.
In fact (properly measured) average global temperatures are still much lower than those of the last major warming period (1930-40).
2. What Constitutes Normal CO2 levels?
During most of the 3 billion years since life first appeared on earth, CO2 levels have averaged several thousand ppm even after advanced mammals appeared. In fact mammals thrive with CO2 levels in the thousands. Biodiversity always increases with higher CO2 levels, owing to the stimulus it provides plant life.
20,000 year ago at the height of the Ice Age cycle CO2 levels were 180 ppm. If they had dropped below 50 ppm life on Earth would have been left out. Even at 180ppm thee was evidence of severe plant deprivation.
Fossilized gingko trees (2hidh experience growth spurts with high CO2 levels), like ice cores, provide an excellent record of CO2 levels. They reveal that current CO2 levels are still far lower than the historical average. Before our current cycle of ice ages began 50 million years ago, CO2 levels averaged between 2,000 and 7,000 ppm. At present they average 425 ppm.
3. CO2 and Methane Play Extremely Minor Role in Climate Variation Compare to Water Vapor.
Condensed water vapor (aka clouds) have far more effect on climate than CO2 because they radiated 100% of the sun’ rays. A group of Harvard astrophysicists have collected substantial evidence that the primary determinant of cloud formation is cosmic rays formed from super nova explosions in outer space. Short term solar activity (magnetic solar winds) can block these cosmic rays and reduce cloud formation.
4. Contrary to IPCC Claims, Extreme Weather Events Aren’t Increasing
The average number of wildfires hasn’t increased – they were five to ten time worse during the 1930s. The trend in wildfire is slightly down over the last 150 years. There’s no decrease in polar bear population, nor increase in typhoon, hurricanes and droughts.
Is Climate Change a Class Issue?
The policy analysts featured towards the end of the film discuss concerns expressed by blue collar workers that the climate change movement represents an attack on the working class. Many working people have the perception that climate change activists, who tend to be fairly affluent (eg Greta Thunberg – see Greta Thunberg’s parent, and that they’re more concerned about nature and whales than the welfare (and survival) of low income people. They feel that by trashing current fossil fuel and nuclear energy systems in the name of “degrowth,” they’re really trashing mass consumption, ie the extension (thanks to cheap energy) of comfortable lifestyles to previously marginalized populations..
Climate Colonialism
The filmmakers also feature African activists concerned about the demand by first world climate activists to curtail African development in the name of saving the planet. Given the impossibility of running heavy industry on wind mills and solar panels, Africa needs fossil fuels, not only to industrialize, but to guarantee food security for their marginalized population, through farm machinery, packaging and refrigerated trucks.
*In France, for example, average temperatures in Paris are 5 degrees C higher than the surrounding country side.
