Last night a severe round of thunderstorms rolled through my neck of the Upper Amazon, replete with sheets of roaring, driving rain, crashing thunder and brilliant lightning strikes that split the midnight sky. Just after the storm's noisy passage I heard a car's engine revving, speeding down the troncal amazónica, the main north-south highway in the Ecuadorean Amazon. I live about one hundred yards off the highway, so the sounds of passing traffic are readily audible, but this vehicle's passing was punctuated with an abrupt, unsettling Ka-WHUMP!
Followed by silence, a silence soon broken by the barking of the shaman's dogs and the sound of salsa music playing quietly in the background.
I hurriedly dressed, pulled on my boots (don't leave home in the Amazon without them) and hustled out to the road, flashlight in hand, the dogs trailing along.
There was an overturned car in the potrero on the other side of the road, its roof buried in the mud, its wheels in the air like the dead paws of so much armadillo road kill. The headlights beamed surreally through the monte while salsa music from the still running CD player tinkled out of the shattered side window. The car's lone occupant crawled out of the wreckage and lurched toward me, sobbing: "Dios mío! Por qué? Por qué? Mi carro! Mi carro!"
He repeated these phrases over and over, sobbing and moaning. He was in shock and the car was severely damaged. The waning moon cast a pale light through the parting storm clouds. I didn't know what to do, so I told him that he was fortunate to be alive. Just then the 2:00am bus from Macas loomed up out of the darkness, so I jumped out in the road and flagged it down. I yelled to the driver and his assistant that a car had run off the road into the potrero. They backed up the bus to the scene of the accident. The driver was still sitting by the side of the road, sobbing inconsolably at his bad fortune. Half of the bus passengers crowded to the windows to gawp at the sight; the other half descended from the bus to take it all in directly. The bus driver and his assistant got down from the bus and persuaded the driver of the wrecked car to ride along with them on the bus. They told me that they would deliver him to his home. Everyone then got back on the bus, and it accelerated away into the inky blackness. I was left alone with the overturned car by the roadside. The shaman's dogs sensed that the excitement was over and turned back to the house.
An hour later the man's mother and sister showed up, along with a tow truck, whose driver and assistant managed to right the car with skillful use of the truck's cable and winch, and drag it out of the mud and the mire. They loaded everything up, the four of them climbed into the cab and the truck lumbered away into the night.
Silence descended once again. The shaman's dogs curled up beside the house. I went back to bed. The shaman himself was off in the forest, consulting with malicagua.
The whole episode is a metaphor for the times.
Untold millions have already lost all they have, brought to utter wrack and ruin by the growing multifaceted global crisis that is assailing humanity and the planet. Millions more are in the process of losing what they have now.
The massive storm that lashed the East Coast of the USSA (sic) in recent days is an instructive example. There are now millions of people without electricity, short on food or without food, unable to access fuel, living in badly damaged housing or without any housing at all.
As the system continues to crash, and it is crashing right now, the numbers of victims will grow larger and larger.
It Ends At 78
Exactly what ends, or why, I don't know, but on the early morning of 11 September 2012, I had a vivid dream in which I was working with another man on a project. We were measuring an indeterminate "something" with a tape measure. I had the end of the tape measure and I could see that it ended at 78. There were no more numbers after 78. That was it, the end of the line.
Now I don't know what the unit of measure represented, but if it represented days, then the 28th of November may possibly be a day of interest. We shall soon see one way or the other.
The Deep Ugliness That Knows No Name
Just when it seems that the Jimmy Savile affair cannot possibly get any more unseemly it reaches still a lower rung. In an interview that appeared in the Irish press he tells a reporter that "children should be eaten at birth."
Which raises the question as to whether Savile was also a cannibal. I believe it is David Icke who has in the past raised the issue of child sacrifice by the wicked, secret cabal who dominate the power hierarchy on this planet. At one time, I would have dismissed such thoughts as beyond the pale.
No more. Given the business, social and political connections and wealth of Jimmy Savile I don't dismiss that possibility whatsoever. When it comes to the movers and shakers in the so-called royal families, the Vatican, Wall Street, the USSA (sic) military, the CIA, the powerful Masonic societies, the Zionists and Neocons, the Bilderbergers, the central bankers, and others of their ilk, it appears that there is no deed too ghastly for them to perpetrate.
It's a Kakistocracy For Sure
What else can you call it but a kakistocracy, when the system is run by the very worst elements of society? We are awash in "elite" dreck from north to south, east to west.
There isn't any easy way out of this rude unpleasantness, that much is for sure.
So you can imagine my unbridled relief to once again discover that my name is not on the ballot in any of the fifty states of the USSA (sic) in next week's presidential election. Moreover, I can state categorically that I will not serve if not elected.
And anyway, who wants to be CEO of a red, white, and blue kakistocracy?
Though I do think that Kakistan would be a fitting name for the present-day USSA (sic).