” . . . existence seems not to be what it portrays;
sensations relay idiosyncrasies, more and more, day to days,
week to weeks, months to solar cycles . . .
roaming, roving, seeking sources, subjects, sensitive seers
who speak out the living of life
where a world of myriad global discrepancy, dreamlike,
disguises true and real from the species that is
in treaty to an encounter an unmasked reality
of Mother Earth as home in the galaxy,
serial writer, ambrasia kurtz
locates acerbica ”
“Managing Waste Material” – Conversing 7
A year and a half of regular, close, intimate, in depth, collative work cultivates uncanny sensitivity to a profound, communicative telepathy between a scribe and a central source. In a phase where her psyche has willed itself undetected, solitary, in thorough, uninterrupted exploratory, expounding quantum territory wrought, she hasn’t wanted to meet, she hasn’t wanted to engage in talk.
Psyche frequency speak must pre-empt content and thought; she’s been following incremental implementation towards the total intent. It’s almost here. It’s nigh. They really are going to try it and, picking up her wavelengths, feeling the sentiment, detecting sways in mood and temperament, she’s been reverberating at the apocalyptic heaving attempting a devastating detriment:
“Uninformed, sanctimonious citizens agreed, or others just simply abided the prohibition on psychoactive plant cultivation and there were prophetic detractors who were saying, ‘it’s not going to stop there, soon they’ll be after our thyme, sage, rosemary and comfrey’*1 but, no one listened, or they didn’t want to believe it, or it wasn’t really their place to do anything about it, or what was it they could do about it? It’s been coming, people have been warning it’s been coming closer, but how could one possibly credit that they were really going to try and pull it off – hey, I’ve done little else, but try and keep myself abreast, informed, in a hope that my awareness will connect into the growing, collective conscious that works to expose the hidden darknesses where these intrigues are forged. So there’s been this long stasis of eerie foreboding, like the growing of ginger banned in Thailand and then, one innocent day, you’re looking out the window and you’re hearing it, it’s being said:
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