Six Times Faster

Wow, Don Lemon is really emerging as the hired gun of the ministry of gaslighting.  I don’t think there’s anything that guy won’t take money to say, on camera.  

There’s a documentary that came out on Netflix everyone is buzzing about, called The Social Dilemma.  It’s about how social media is making us all worse, or at least worse off, people, I think?  I haven’t even watched a trailer and I cancelled my Netflix due to their association with Cuties so I’m entirely unqualified to comment, BUT it occurs to me: that’s…kinda like…one more ingredient in the gaslighting stew.  “Oh, it’s *social media* making us crazy!  Not the actually crazy shit staring us right in the face; it’s social mediaThat’s the explanation…”.

Okay, I realized I should at least watch the trailer so I’m at least bringing a knife to the gun fight, not just my skateboard, and I learned, quote, “Fake news spreads six times faster than real news,” so I’m feeling actually pretty validated here.  It sounds like a documentary that I would normally, emphasis normally, be interested in, had its release not followed immediately on the heels of the most ambitious pedophilia-normalizing softball in history, on the same platform.  

To the extent the documentary brings our attention to the gap between the baseline of our collectively shared reality versus the compounding distortions of its portrayal in our digital bubbles, and the effect that has on us individually, plus the fact that our psycho-behavioral fingerprints are being taken every time we’re online, that sounds great.  I’d applaud such a perspective IF it didn’t cohere with the Cabal’s scrabble-dabble attempts to remain intact; the great and powerful Wizard of Oz, pushing buttons and operating levers, feeling more and more exposed as the curtain of insensate public perception is, inexorably, pulled aside.  Arguments about reality on social media platforms represent, themselves, the opiate of the masses in a sense, squandering our energies, at which point it’s now easy to take the fake high road Netflix helpfully provided and say, “It’s the algorithms’ fault.”  

I mean my point is, a parent can patiently and lovingly and rationally explain to their frightened child, over and over again, that they don’t have an invisible friend, and there aren’t monsters under their bed.  That’s what The Social Dilemma seems to be explaining.  It’s six times easier to believe there’s a monster under your bed than to believe it’s just shadows and patterns.  Right?  And that’s just great, except when there’s an actual fucking monster under the bed, and the kid knows it.  

So any theory that seems too wild, too much of a departure from “the fields we know” is easily dismissed, and I’ve dismissed my fair share of them so I certainly understand.  I do believe there is an actual monster under the bed, unfortunately, and if any algorithm is problematic right now, it’s our tendency to presume the mundane in the face of mounting evidence to the contrary.  Miracles are relics of the past; the concept of organized evil is either entirely anachronistic, or properly located within on-the-face benign institutions like law enforcement or anti-vaxx enclaves.  

Fake news spreads six times faster than real news.  Huh.  That’s quite a claim.  That’s quite a claim.  Again, my life-long veg skepticism serves me so well.  I mean, there’s nothing like having every adult and authority figure in your life (except my wonderful parents) tell you you’re crazy and probably gonna die, for years, for decades, simply because you hold firm to the idea that the process of transitioning from furry friend to someone’s dinner is probably unpleasant.  That was the original monster under my bed, and I’ve had every kind of person explain to me, every kind of way — patiently, scoldingly, lovingly, sneeringly — that that monster’s not real.  

So here we are: having it patiently, scoldingly, lovingly, sneeringly explained to us that there isn’t a market for children’s bodies and organs and blood, and that it’s not highly organized, and that global elites aren’t the ones running interference for the trafficking, and that it’s not connected to any occult ritualized symbolism, and that the one administration doing something about it is, instead, pathological and corrupt to its core, and that the one open source military intelligence page revealing the truth, sometimes years in advance of disclosure, is simply a figment of the conspiracy theorist imagination, and that the noose on this Cabal isn’t tightening and these (*gestures at everything*) aren’t the antics of a panicked Wizard of Oz, throwing levers willy-nilly.  

This is not a monster under our bed, it’s all a bad dream, go back to sleep.  Don Lemon loves us, and has our best interests at heart, and will read us a bedtime story until we start snoring, and then gently close the door on his way out.

I’d really love that.  I’d love it not to be true.  

So yeah — nice try again, Netflix.  First, a pedo-normalizing fap fest masquerading as a coming-of-age story about patriarchy and media sexualization of women and children; then a massive red herring intended to make us second guess the most logical and least savory conclusion of our own five senses, masquerading as an earnest and concerned examination of the social media’s impact on our psyches.  

I think there’s a scramble right now to erect hasty legal and social precedents to buffer and slow down the consequences of the inexorable reveal, as various small fry are thrown to the wolves by the critters higher up the food chain.  (I’ve warned you about my competing analogies.)  California’s SB 145, a maniacal focus on late-term abortions even against the overwhelming wishes of Democrat constituents themselves, an obviously manufactured attempt to not only defund but also demonize law enforcement generally, the shoe-horned assurance that our real enemies are systemic racism and climate change (ie maximum idealogical chaos) because the thing we’re not supposed to be looking at has a unifying power like no other — dismay, en masse, at the victimization of children, en masse.  The list goes on, exhaustingly.  

Whatever.  You know my deal, if you’ve been reading me for long.  I’ve trusted myself in the face of profound gaslighting before, and I still do.  It comes to a point where the burden of proof shifts from the claimant to the denier: so there’s not a monster under my bed?  Awesome.  Prove it.  For me, the burden of proof has shifted, and no quantity of pandemic or riots or fires or threats can cause me to un-know the evidence of my senses.  

Anyway, here I am at the fire camp, minus my family.  I’m really truly enjoying Gene, who replaced Nick, and our conversational topics range far and wide.  He’s easy to engage with and easy to disengage from, which is like the social holy grail for me.  I’m getting acclimated to my entirely new, additional job hauling water around the camp that they threw on me, the other day, and have arranged for a former student of mine, from the school, to come out and get trained up on fires to take some of the pressure off me and Gene.  She’s wonderful, and I’m excited to see her in any case.  

I got to have a long speaker phone call with my dad and Nick last night.  Milo was huffing and chuffing after his ball at intervals, and honking because he honks in the Southwest (presumably this will go away again in Hawaii), and Buffy was silent but I appealed to her as my perfect darling princess on the speaker, and Nick said her ears perked up.  She’s been down in the dumps, and misses me as much as I miss her.  She seems mostly oblivious to me when we’re close, but apparently I’m kind of a big deal.  She has deigned to snuggle with Nick in bed sometimes, with her various feeble flutterings of her various stork-like legs, so she’s feeling appreciated.  Today he’ll buy our tickets to Hawaii, as a necessary factor in this pet immigrations customs paperwork that has to be sent off, with much accompanying money, and which represents the longest delay in our whole process, because: government.  So, within just a couple of hours, I’ll know the exact day we’re getting on the plane!  That feels like a big deal.  My brother signed the lease on the house with the avocado tree, yesterday, so that’s locked in.  There’s nothing to do but be on the fire and have as much fun as possible while making as much money as possible, while Nick slaves around making all the other stuff happen, and my dad hypothesizes new problems we hadn’t thought of before, and supervises while smoking his pipe.  He’s all geared up to get to the new house and sit out on that big lanai like it’s his new full time job — I guess 100% active volcanoes plus 100% active sharks is not so bad after all!  Getting him the perfect lanai chair will be a fun group project, on that end.  

I ran across a YouTube guy who says (more) shit’s gonna hit the fan on Oct. 23rd, based on an astrological shift into Scorpio at that time plus momentum of matrix-based events, and I really hope he’s wrong because I don’t think we can get ‘er done by then.  But I’m mentioning it just in case he’s right, haha.  A cursory glance at the events of 2020 do point to the timeline leading up to the election being increasingly fraught, by any analysis or prevailing world view, so as usual I’m not sure how seriously or dismissively to take that in regards to our plan.  We need a lot of basic industries and services to continue functioning as they normally do, around that time.  If paying homage to the god of blog earns me any brownie points, I’ll keep my karma in the black.  

I’m happy to be here doing what I’m doing, but Nick feels like home to me, most of all, and so I’m feeling very far from home now, last couple days.     

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