We are neither in the place we were at, not yet at the place we wish to be
I did a 7 hour drive yesterday to the north of Scotland, and stopped off along the way at the Highland Folk Museum. The Geddes lot are from near Inverness, so this is kind of family heritage terrain. Since I drive a vintage car that lacks a working stereo, and is too noisy inside anyway to play music, it gave me many hours to noodle upon the state of the world and my place within it. Going through the Highlands brings bittersweet feelings, and the passing of 400 miles let me put some words to the churning inside.
I spent my twenties burning a lot of petrol driving up and down the country to get to and from the mountains. Before having children, my typical New Year would involve being thigh deep in snow up some Scottish peak as the daylight faded. Out of the 282 Scottish hills over 3000 feet in altitude (“The Munros”), I have about 30-40 left to climb. I once tallied up how many days it would take to finish them off, and it’s around 14 (as many distinct hills are strung together in long ridge walks). Driving through the mountains is like a flashback to 30 years ago, returning to the 1990s.
I still hang out with many of the same friends, although on a less frequent basis, and with milder terrain that better suits our attenuated middle aged ambitions. Only one I would consider to be “awake” to the wider corruption, and refused the diabolical poison dart of doom. I know many of my readers are in the same position, with formerly deep ties and longstanding friendships in a state of suspended animation. Those of us who were considered to have “gone crazy” by departing the death cult’s groupthink await a moment of reconciliation to reality.
Inside I wish to go off and finish my round of the Munros, and I have a collection of surface excuses for not having done it — time, money, unfitness. Deeper down, I suspect the mountains trigger an unconscious longing for those close friendships I once formed, and defined my world. We were all striving to do our best within the “matrix” construct of leisure travel, conventional careers, and raising a family (on the enemy’s terms). To return to the timeless mountains has a meaning beyond putting my boots on again. It is to acknowledge the fundamental shift in my life — and theirs.
Being in the hills is a constant reminder of my own past, and the divergent paths we have taken. To reject the collectivist insanity is to also step away from aspects of who you once thought you were, and the trajectory you imagined yourself to be on. Many of my oldest friends are conventionally successful — several professors, a law firm partner, technology pioneer — and my vocation is “illegible” to them. I can mumble about being a writer and photographer, and they might grasp citizen journalism and anti-corruption activism. The real war we are fighting in is invisible to those in the mainstream.
There is no way to go back to how I was, and therefore the state we were in, nor would I wish to regress. Having seen the ways of the wicked, and comprehended the lies we have been fed, there is no pining for a dangerous false innocence. Yet I cannot quite move on, either. I still feel tied to the same people and my past, so the energy to reignite my passion for the mountains — on my own terms and under my independent drive — has proven elusive. It is almost as if I am caught waiting for them to awaken, so we can reconnect in our old familiar terrain, and restore our intimacy. Just that may never happen.
The nature of unconventional and unrestricted warfare is that it subverts our sense of reality, and steals our notion of self, fragmenting our reality. Those who are aware of the false construct we are inhabiting two worlds, one being the individualist perception, the other the consensus illusion. We are being nonstop gaslit by the “collusion of the normies” with the post-Covid fantasy that we have returned to a stable and recognisable way of life. Its pretence is that if we ignore the glaring discontinuity we have lived through, then it will go away.
There are consequences to attempted genocides and totalitarian takeovers, so a financial, political, technological, spiritual, and cultural restart is close at hand. Once you see the engineered mass psychosis, you cannot unsee it. Yet the ability to straddle these worlds can leave you with a sense of “stuckness”, as some shards of your life are still attached to the people and places that represent the spiritually lesser self you used to be. I cannot be the Martin these people used to know, and I am unsure if they are capable of knowing the Martin I now am, yet I am confronted with the same context of rocky peaks plastered in heather and bog. How to relate to that landscape?
As I was driving along yesterday, I tried to name this inter-paradigm paralysis, where I cannot be who I was, yet I am not quite ready to be who I will become. My inner computer scientist was remind of the term “interstitial”. It is like that little popup box on the screen in some application as your switch tasks or contexts, to keep you amused or signal that the computer is busy. It is not the actual application workflow itself, but the commentary the programmer offers about the transitions. Another words that represents the same concept is “liminal”.
The same “caught in limbo” feeling afflicts my work. I really struggle to engage with mundane tasks associated with running a business, like uploading photos to create art print products, and sending out marketing emails. The battle has not resolved itself yet, so to engage with “normal making a living” requires me to temporarily pretend I am not fighting an information war, and that my energies can be safely diverted into pretty pictures. The effort of climbing a mountain in winter pales in comparison to doing administration! The moment Covid hit, I quit any semblance of keeping accounts and complying with the formalities of self-employment.
There is no way in which my old friends will be able to relate to what “anons” have been through in the last five years. We have had to stare into a hellish abyss of evil — bioweapons, mind control, psychotronic torture, child sex slaves, weaponised AI, ingested nanotech, ubiquitous poisons, captured institutions, genetically and physically mutilated youth, and so on. The void does gaze back, and it affects you at a deep level. A bio-digital war is made more gruesome by its imperceptibility, not less. We have endured the psychological equivalent of trench warfare, but with invisible wounds to the psyche.
We can still engage with, and participate in, “ordinary” hobbies and professional activities, but everything is now done through the lens of inversion, conflict, and deceit. Each encounter is gauged by how open-minded and self-educated our counterparty appears to be. Conversations are titrated out into the window of acceptable thought forms that the other can safely receive and accept, depending on their level of residual programming. The deliberate sabotage of the mass psyche, and shattering of sense making, makes everyday social exchange exhausting. When attached to our “deep past” of earlier naive stages in life, it is particularly weighty.
This interstitial time, and its associated paralysis, cannot and will not last. There is an objective reality to turbo cancers, sudden heart failure, and infertility that cannot be ignored. Excess deaths and missing births are objective phenomena. You can lie about their cause, but they are hard to hide. The exposure of the election fraud is tied to the medical fraud. The collapse of the biosecurity state also takes with it the supporting corrupted systems of governance, finance, and enforcement. It is hard to comprehend the magnitude of what is impending.
In a way, seven hours of staring through the windscreen (with no smart device to thumb at) is a rare luxury. It is time to reflect upon the change that is happening both in the outside world, as well as in each of us. I now have a clarity over who I am and what I stand for that I previously lacked. Each struggle that has been overcome has forced an “upgrade” to my values and self-worth. When I went in the hills with friends in the past, usually others would carry the map, and I went along with the crowd. Yet I often went mountain climbing alone, and not just in easy conditions, and was fully in charge of myself. In retrospect I can see those two modalities of encountering the terrain, and which one ultimately dominated. I now habitually make my own way.
The way we ultimately prevail in this war is to begin living again in “peace mode”, and transcending the combat mindset. We cannot spend our whole lives as “preppers”, anticipating yet more shocks, and curtailing our activities to those we deem safe in a conflict context. These active hobbies and craft endeavours that help to save us, since they take us away from the fallen institutional world. Overcoming the paralysis of an interstitial existence involves literally putting our sturdy footwear on, and get going. Everything that is movement and life is the antithesis of that moribund feeling of waiting for the world to change, or give us permission to move on.
It is not easy to acknowledge our grief for the friends and family who have fallen away in this painful awakening process, for it is pervasive and can be overwhelming. The world is factually not as we once imagined it to be, and at both the extremes of goodness and depravity. Having had the shock of exposure to the malevolence, we can begin to see its finitude and weakness, too. There is a slow process of reclaiming all that is joyful and beautiful in the world, regardless of any past associations it may have had, personally or culturally. The paralysis is only a passing one from a temporary shock. We can “move on” in both the figural and literal senses — and restore our sense of purpose, no matter what lies in our past.
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