Dispatches and Declarations (Circa April, 2021)

Scott Thomas Outlar

Scott Thomas Outlar

I’ve been watching videos of lions, hyenas, wild dogs, giraffes, buffalo, and other beasts inhabiting the jungles and plains of late. I’m not sure how I initially got sucked down this particular rabbit hole, but, Good Lord, what a savage carnival of mayhem is put on display when the craze of the hunt takes over.

We have a tendency, I believe, in this modern age of silicon and fiber optics, to glorify nature from the comfort of our centrally heated homes, tucked safely beneath soft sheets, fortified securely behind brick walls. 

Well, overall, in the grand scheme of things, there’re plenty of good reasons to sing such praises, for nature is pretty damn spectacular and beautiful, what with the mountains and the valleys and the sunrises and the oceans and the rest of all its awesome splendor. 

But watching ravenous animals annihilate one another before feasting upon the flesh of the carcasses laid to waste in the wake of their slaughter has provided an important reminder to me of late about just how brutal certain aspects of life will always remain. 

So much for evolution toward enlightenment in regards to peaceful and harmonious consciousness in some species. But what need do lions have for thumbs, or the ability to strike fire into creation? They’re more primal still. And far too eager to dine than spend superfluous time dreaming up recipes for elegant dishes. Rare and raw is the whole of the law on their menu.

My father once told me about his two Irish Setters, Trojan and Brutus, brothers of their mother, Brandi. How they kept everything calm and held tightly together for 364 days of the year, but on that other infamous day, they would have a hellacious fight. Like clockwork. To determine who would reign over the backyard for the coming cycle. Brutus held the crown until, eventually, he didn’t. Pecking orders all the way down.

Yet still the squirrels frolic. For what it’s worth. Two hills of beans, maybe, and all the doomsday storage supplies the heart of dystopia could ever long for.

And butterflies still flutter at the most fortuitous and synchronistic moments, despite plague in the Wuhan Age, in spite of curses and spells cast of fear.

Witnessing the chaos wrought out in nature’s killing fields brings a greater appreciation of how utterly miraculous the fact is that some parts of the world actually live in a relatively civilized manner. Of course, how long such orderliness will last is anyone’s guess at this point. The threads have loosened. The tongues are babbling. The structure trembles.

From out the gene swarm soup, down from the branches, out of the caves, into our huts. It’s been a long, diligent, methodical journey of survival through the ages to reach this current act we find ourselves in upon the stage. Though the play has barely just begun churning out drama… considering the climatic action that lies ahead (and who’s lurking behind the scenes).

The part of the script I just don’t get is why in the name of any El that ever walked the earth do we allow the most reptilian sorts of creatures to control the narrative and flow of information, much less every other lever of power and influence throughout the empire? Seems rather silly.

What’s that cool chill in the morning air that causes a kundalini buzz to burst onto the scene and send meditation sessions into deeper levels of conscious expansion? What’s that subtle recollection that rushes forth to spark a deluge of memories while the sun’s core is pierced anew?

Oh, what a life to have lived! So far. And what lessons to have stored away only to resurrect when needed most.

Such as: if you’re not catching flak, then you’re not close enough to the target; but if you are, well, you’re right on point, so steady onward through the blitzkrieg’s fog. Righteousness is resplendent in the Age of Wuhan. And the perfect amount of indignation must be summoned to spit with appropriate force in the face of the Beast System.

Oh, what a time to be alive! History rapidly unfolding before our eyes. A battle for liberty in the Roaring Twenties. Divergent paths are becoming so crystalized at the point of bifurcation. One is narrow, as always, and filled with the energy of holy spirit; the other, a shameful byproduct of herd behavior as their hive mind goes askew, afoul. A pity.

In an era of great deceit, it has become abundantly clear that it is not freedom which some people seek, but rather freedom from freedom. A willful turning over of their consciousness and critical thinking to pundits, officials, experts, technocrats, and other politicized hacks and clowns of the degenerate so-called elite.

Whether it’s the international banking cartels or the big tech oligarchs perched high in their Silicon Valley castles or the propaganda machine of the corporate media or the military industrial complex or the pharmaceutical lobbying interests or any of the other corrupted mafia institutions that have failed to serve as honest gatekeepers and arbiters of truth in society, it’s all cut from a similar cloth.
You can call it fascism, you can call it socialism, you can call it communism, or you can call it a centralized, command-and-control, collectivist leviathan of authoritarianism. After all, a thorn by any other name still seeks to sting the same.

The parasitic Priest Class of the entrenched establishment has its fangs sunk deep into the body politics and culture of this world. A nihilistic system thrashing and wailing, held in place by fraudulent means. The way of the wicked always weaves deceit in darkness.
But it’s nothing to get all bent out of shape about. Schemes hatched by hyenas are prone to shriek loudest when exposed under pressure. Light burns hottest at the melting point of truth.
The dystopic, draconian, globalist agenda promises to “build back better” with a “great reset.” No, thank you. The inverted ideology of that path is destined to collapse.
The moral high ground will always prove to be the most precarious perch for hypocrites to hold. Take heart and walk steady in good spirits.

1 comment :

  1. Poetry is the art of creativity;
    Polished from those ancient sect...
    Each day is in union of it’s beckoning following;
    Keep your creative juices flowing...
    Whether my words stem from ardent strain,

    You have the words of God,
    Expression from the love to know
    Each step that we take;
    In a moment called from faith...

    Mario Vitale


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