Kimberly Steele

Steve Cutts, Evolution

At nearly fifty years old, my life has been inundated with television since I began this incarnation.  My grandmother once told me that she got a TV early on (1950s era) and it attracted a fair-weather friend who came over only to watch soap operas.  She was one of the few people I remember who budgeted the amount of time the television was on.  My best friend's house was far different: they had cable TV in the early 80s.  Cable back then did not have commercials.  If regular TV was cocaine, cable was crack.  We watched countless R-rated movies without any form of adult supervision.  No wonder Generation X is so fond of its foul language and Facebook drama: our childhoods were chock full of both in the form of cable TV.  As a teenager, I began to be bored by most TV despite my entire family remaining addicted to it.  Despite my overall dissatisfaction and boredom with TV, my brother and I still fought to watch it when we went to our family vacation cottage as children, as if there wasn't an entire world waiting outside for us to break out of our trance and join it.

Approximately fifteen years ago, my salary class aspirations got flushed down the toilet when the company my husband worked for as a high level executive crumbled due to managerial infighting and incompetence.  My budget tightened like a noose as I scrambled to cut costs.  I played a constant game of Whack the Pop-Up Expense to fend off the forces that sought to consume the contents of my tiny, dwindling bank account.  One day the incredible noise of Duck Dynasty, a  reality TV show about a group of loud, redneck hunters emanated from the next room.  I strongly suggested to my husband that I wanted to get rid of our TV and its accompanying package of channels; he reluctantly agreed we could do without it.  We have never gone back, though this is mainly due to my status as the breadwinner of the house.  My husband likes TV a great deal more than I do and would most likely pay the hefty fees per month for a package of deluxe channels if he had the money to do it.  

The Astral and Etheric Poison Effects of TV

Consider a stereotype about the Boomer generation: the Boomer sits transfixed in front of the television most of his or her waking hours, slowly losing the ability to do anything except sit and watch.  The characters on TV become more real to him than his family.  There is more than a few grains of truth to the stereotype.

In Hubert Selby Jr.'s novel Requiem for a Dream, an elderly woman named Sarah Goldfarb retreats into television and diet pill addiction as her adult son and his friends retreat into their own parallel heroin addictions.  The genius of Requiem for a Dream is its brutal portrayal of Sarah's addiction, which is just as destructive and deadly as a descent into illegal drugs.  TV is designed to be addictive and the majority of American Boomers fell for it.  

On the astral plane, TV creates a mess of emotional manipulation mixed with addictive dependency.  The watcher’s best instincts of charity, love, friendliness, and bravery are turned against him as he becomes an inert captive, watching other people living a facsimile of the karmic lessons he should be out there having in real life.  Breaks in the monotony of programming are more potent and obvious brainwashing: commercials.  Again, we have an astral mess of being urged to eat “healthfully” yet being bombarded with images of processed convenience food.  Is it any surprise the TV-addicted Boomer has a refrigerator that resembles a small morgue with a smell to match?  Pre-packaged convenience foods seldom live up to their advertising. 

TV manipulates via mixed messages. The lovely, slim actors and actresses indulge in every vice yet remain beautiful and enviable. One moment, there is an ad or a product placement for convenience food. Thirty seconds later, there are two ads for the latest pharmaceutical drug to treat a disease caused by a sedentary lifestyle that involves eating lots of convenience food.

Good Cop, Bad Cop

Despite the proliferation of emotional puppeteering designed to engage do-goodnik instincts among sedentary watchers, TV is a bad influence. The worst kind of behavior is treated with reverence and fascination on TV regardless of the fictional or nonfictional nature of the program. Crime shows about cops who run around chasing murderers and rapists are thinly disguised profiteering off of the excitement created by evildoers.  Without evildoers, the chickenhawk planted firmly on the couch would have nobody to look down upon. Without the alcoholic celebrity stumbling from hook up to hook up on the reality show, the wannabe would have no darkness to use in order to compare and contrast her beige, corporation-enslaved life.

In Lionel Shriver's novel We Need to Talk About Kevin, a teenaged boy named Kevin goes on a massacre and slaughters other kids and teachers in his school.  When Kevin returns home, he murders everyone in his family except for his mother, forcing her to live down the shame of having a mass murderer for a son.  After Kevin goes to prison, he is interviewed by a media reporter.  Kevin remarks:

"All of you people watching out there, you're listening to what I say because I have something you don't: I got plot.  Bought and paid for.  That's what all you people want, and why you're sucking off me.  You want my plot.  I know how you feel, too, since hey, I used to feel the same way.  TV and video games and movies and computer screens... On April 8th, 1999, I jumped into the screen, I switched to watchee.  Ever since, I've known what my life is about.  I give good story.  It may have been kinda gory, but admit it, you all loved it.  You ate it up.  Nuts, I ought to be on some government payroll.  Without people like me, the whole country would jump off a bridge, 'cause the only thing on TV is some housewife on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? winning $64,000 for remembering the name of the president's dog."

 

The Feng Shui of the Black Box

The television is etheric poison.  Even when off, the TV is an ugly black box.  The only way it is ever going to blend into its surroundings is when it is either in a store full of other TVs or if it is hidden by the doors of an armoire as was fashionable in the 90s.  When it is on, it perpetuates a colorful and bombastic assault that destroys entire rooms with its etheric miasma.  If the average person could see the etheric plane, the television would look like a chemical spill vomiting its rainbow tinted poison in a toxic pool around itself.  The only true way of cleaning up the noxious spill of the TV is by getting rid of the device entirely. 

Video Games

Games or what used to be called video games are hideous astral plane polluters, replacing the normal functions of human imagination with caricatured worlds of television-like brainwashing. If you want to take a perfectly normal young man and turn him into a miserable, pale, flabby drudge who accomplishes no original works and never realizes his own unique potential, by all means introduce him to video game addiction. 

Video games are expensive.  The equipment and sheer computing power needed to use them cannot and will not exist in a world where server farms are no longer subsidized and where internet is expensive to the average person.  As in the case of the TV addict, we have an inert captive living vicariously through a fake, prefab set of characters.  Life lessons aren’t lived and learned; they are procrastinated and set aside for a “later” that will hopefully never arrive.  Once again, the television dominates the living space like a black hole, and instead of providing cooked food, heat, and warmth like the fireplaces of old, it is a cold electronic eye that watches and sucks the vitality of humans even while it is asleep. 

One of the reasons I chose not to have children in this incarnation was the influence of TV and games.  I was addicted to PacMan by the age of 10 and by TV and movies at the age of 18.  I was addicted despite knowing better and feeling in my gut that it was wrong to fritter away the hours in front of the barking, bleeping screen.  If I could not resist the pull of the electronic hypnotist, how on Earth would I keep my child from becoming an addict?  My hat is off to any parent nowadays who is able to sanely budget their child’s TV and game time.  I don’t think I could have pulled it off and that is why I decided not to do it.

The Rise of Influencers

The influence of TV has been supplanted by the rise of influencers, but this is not to say that influencer culture is any better than TV addiction. Influencing as a career offers far more than TV because unlike the world of Hollywood, there are no gatekeepers.  Though the Kardashian/Jenners and their ilk may be plagued with rumors about how they maintain their top dog status, top influencers do not need to be part of the alleged Satanic, supposedly fecalphiliac/infanticidal elite. All that is needed to get in to influencing is a mobile phone with a decent camera. Lovely young girls can stay far away from the neo-Harvey Weinsteins of the world and still make all the money. Like Kevin of We Need to Talk About Kevin, the influencer is not the watcher, she is the watchee.

The influencer is perfectly happy to leave the habits of her Boomer grandparents behind in order to embrace a new and equally fake set of images. Unlike the Boomer's worship of prettied-up celebrities, her altar is the digital mirror. Her own prettied-up, photo-edited, "improved" face and body becomes the standard by which all must be measured. The cadre of ghosts that haunt the aging Hollywood celeb become much more personal, and therein lies the rub.  Influencing takes a great deal of energy across the planes: like gaming, it only exists because of subsidized internet grids. Like a TV watching habit, it is a time suck extraordinaire to create the content and to whip the avatar into apparent good shape. Last but not least, there is the pouring of one's entire spirit into the avatar and the investment in its fake karma and destiny. But that's a topic for future conversation.

TV Isn't All Bad!

I am a visual learner and I owe much of my current knowledge directly to the television. Being a visual learner means that it often takes me three times as long to learn via written instruction as it does from watching a few boring, jerky images on a screen. I have learned countless skills from television: I remember Sesame Street helping me count, Schoolhouse Rock helping me understand the functions of government, heaven knows how many origami and cooking videos, and last night's tech guy video teaching me how to use Open Broadcasting Software (OBS). As I mentioned, I don't have TV, but I do have a computer screen that functions in much the same way.  

I use TV to learn but I also use it to relax. I am no stranger to movies and various series. I often watch them while I exercise on my stationary bike.  Right now, I am watching a sweet series from Japan called The Maikanai: Cooking for the Maiko House on Netflix. The show is a subtle education on what the daily lives of maiko (apprentice geisha) are like and since it is in Japanese, it is a good intro/review of Japanese language. It's also a straight up entertaining show. I am grateful for TV and much like any other pastime that can turn into a vice, I believe it is fine in moderation.

Humans are weird and we can turn anything into an addiction.  The moral of the story here, I think, is to recognize the good and the bad of the omnipresent screen and to do what little we can to amplify -- and be thankful for -- the good.

As a young woman, I was not exactly the sort to wear a purity ring and save myself for marriage. I started dating in high school when I was sixteen and violently insecure. My relationships back then, much like the relationships of all my friends, were fraught with nightmarish drama and stupidity. Though I always made it a point never to go after a man who was married or even seriously engaged, I cheated on two of my steady boyfriends. I had a definite pattern of becoming entrapped by men for whom I only felt lukewarm affection. These relationships quickly turned into co-dependent dysfunction: they depended on me to dole out favors, sexual and otherwise, and I depended on them to drive me around and come to my emotional rescue when I inevitably crashed off a self-manufactured trip. I didn’t need illegal drugs or excessive amounts of alcohol to ride the rollercoaster.

By the time I was 24, I had finally had enough and decided I would date a poor man who was living in his aunt’s garage. This was certainly not the smartest thing I could do, but all things considered, the poor guy was the only one who had ever written me a poem, felt it necessary to open doors (even car doors) when we were on dates, and in general could grok the kind of darkness I was born with. I had my choice and proposals from much wealthier men, but I turned them down, perhaps foolishly. I chose him over the others because he was the only one with whom I felt a soul connection. 

We married when I was 26 and he was 40. To make a long story short, it has been a different roller coaster ride ever since. I had to get over my savior complex and the idea that I could fix absolutely everything by my extreme genius. He had to overcome plenty of personal issues as well, though I will not list them as it is his story to tell and not mine. My husband and I have had many battles: this is a result of us both being exceptionally stubborn and strong-willed. The marriage has been severely tested and it has not always come out the better for it. The same is true of my parents’ marriage. Now that we stare down the barrel of old age, we watch as most of what held us together as young people — physical attraction, hopeful potential, and youthful insecurity — crumbles away and we are left with the foundation of what drew us together in the first place. In our odd case, it was an understanding of each other's darkness.

I have had the gift/curse of a great deal of etheric energy and fairly good looks in my life, now fading and reshaping itself as I enter my own childless, post-menopause reality. This energy used to provoke vicious jealousy among women and gay men who would often stop at nothing to undermine me. There is no way of being friends with someone who is constantly cursing you in their subconscious, and that’s why I can count my friends on one hand. Now that I have more of a bird’s eye view of this dynamic, I understand that etheric energy is the key to attracting mates. What I mean is that if you understand how to increase your own etheric energy, you will have no trouble attracting mates.

As I have talked about in previous essays, etheric starvation is the commonest malady of our time. When you live in an ugly environment, eat processed and devitalized food, and practice ingratitude on the regular, you are nearly guaranteed to suffer etheric starvation and the addictive, self-medicating behavior that is the natural result of that starvation. Young people are usually overflowing with etheric-plane energy, and that is why the old crave the company of the young.

It follows that if you are single and seeking a mate, no matter what your age, you should improve your etheric plane energy as much as possible. In order to do so, we are going to look into one of the concepts behind my Ogham tiles. For those who know me, I use the Ogham as a system of divination. The Ogham are kind of like runes because they have letters based on various trees. Each tree’s symbolism gives you a direction not only for meditation but for seeing the trend in which your life is leaning. The letter du jour for the single who seek a love that lasts is Saille, the Willow.

The willow tree has a curious property in that it can bend without breaking. When my husband and I moved into our house eight years ago, the yard was tabula rasa with waist-high grass and no trees except two dead elms that sadly had to come down as they were about to fall on the roof. We had no money for landscaping, but thanks to a now-beloved neighbor, I got some donated trimmings from her pussy willow. I stuck about 10 sticks rudely into the mud slick in the part of our yard that used to pool with water whenever a heavy rain came. Willows are water-lovers, and the sad little pile of sticks grew in four short years into a massive tree. The pussy willow became larger than its parent plant and now towers over the garden shed and provides shelter for birds while cutting winds that used to race through the yard. The willow’s strength, like a good marriage, is in its ability to bend without breaking.

The willow, ruled by Aphrodite, is a tree of feminine grace and etheric flow. Aphrodite once graced me with a tidbit of knowledge worth exploring: the idea that in order to experience true love, we must eliminate all distractions, including the good things we are affectionate towards yet lukewarm about. The goal of a single person who wants the kind of lasting marriage enjoyed by my husband and myself and my parents needs to first amass etheric energy in order to attract multiple candidates for marriage. The second step is the obvious one of figuring out the question of Who is the One? The third step is to ruthlessly eliminate all that would stand in the way of successfully pairing off and to focus on the common interest of you both, hopefully until the end of your current mortal incarnation. This means axing all other love interests and setting them free to their destinies with other people. It may mean letting go of friends whose lifestyle is not akin to the monogamous one you seek.

Whether old or young, in order to attract mates, we need to first and foremost make the most of what we’ve got on the physical plane. I am not talking about dramatic plastic surgery overhauls here unless you’ve got a legitimate physical deformity such as a second set of vestigial arms. If you are flabby, it is time for an exercise routine. If you are a bit of a slob, it’s time to invest in the time it takes to brush your teeth twice a day and to bathe enough to smell good head to toe. If you cannot cook a meal from scratch, it is time to learn. By improving yourself, you make yourself far more attractive to your potential mate. You’ve got to give them something to work with and also show them you care about the details in life. Quert is another tree card that is sacred to Aphrodite in the Ogham. Quert is the Apple, another hardy, resilient tree. In my Ogham, it means Delight or all of the tiny courtesies and moments of gratitude that make civilization civilized. God is in the details and Quert is detail-oriented. She is the tassel on the shiny knob that doesn’t need to be there for any reason except that it is joyful and colorful. She is the generous tip given by a person who cannot really afford it to the excellent waiter who happened to need it that day. She is the mother who brightened her elderly neighbor’s day by having her children draw a picture for him and sign their names to it. She is the lover who cheers his mate up after a long and terrible day with a silly joke learned from the internet. Build what is best and most positive about yourself and you’ll attract the One who is right for you. It may take a while but it will happen.

Taking up a protective ritual such as the Lesser Banishing Ritual of the Pentagram or the Sphere of Protection is one of the few surefire ways of managing your etheric energy and amplifying it over time. If you are single and wanting a mate, a daily protective ritual can be extremely helpful as it takes what energy you’ve amassed and protects it while you work on improving yourself on subtler planes. When you think about it, banishing rituals are magical shapes drawn in the air that act as seals (there is a good reason why those ornate symbols are called “seals”) to lock in both etheric and astral plane energy and to fend off nasty etheric and astral gunk that would siphon it off for nefarious purposes. As you develop your positive habit of doing a protective ritual, you will also come to understand more about yourself, which will be crucial to making a relationship work long-term.

The second habit that should be de rigueur for the One who seeks the One is discursive meditation. Only by knowing yourself will you know the One when you find him or her, that’s logic — blunt as hell. Even the best of marriages has its share of conflict: trust me on this one. You are going to need to know all of your own best and worst tendencies well in advance if you seek a lasting partnership in this day and age. The collective astral is the worst that it has been in tens of thousands of years. It ain’t easy for a marriage to survive in the best of times, and we are currently in the worst of times, at least on the astral plane.

Habit two and a half is divination: tarot, Ogham, runes, scrying, or whatever floats your boat. I say two and a half because divination isn’t worth your efforts until you’ve spent a good amount of time in the discursive meditation chair. In the case of divination, it is truly better if you use divination after you’ve become good at discursive meditation and not a moment before.

The third habit, and perhaps the most essential of all, is the cultivation of gratitude. By becoming grateful for all of the little things that most people take for granted, you will make yourself into hot property whenever you so much as enter a room where your potential life mate dwells. My husband’s poor boy gratitude for things like restaurant pancakes are what separated him from the others in the beginning of our relationship. To other boyfriends, restaurant pancakes were mediocre sustenance wolfed down without thought as they stumbled blindly into disease and/or morbid obesity. For my then-future husband, they were precious manna from heaven. When someone is grateful for small things and shows it without embarrassment because it is their “normal”, it is a good indication they will be grateful for you and all your quirks long-term. We all desire the grateful person most of all because we all want to be appreciated. Gratitude is what keeps a marriage kind and gentle, two traits beloved by Aphrodite from what little I can tell.

So there you go — my advice for catching that elusive mate and keeping him or her. Happy Nothingburger Valentine’s to you and best wishes on the road to true love.

Scott Adams is a D-list celebrity best known for being the creator of the Dilbert comic strip.  The heyday of Dilbert spanned the 80s and 90s, which also happened to be the height of the corporate office downsizing culture it satirized.  The show's peak was the Dilbert TV show, which lasted two years and won an Emmy before it was cancelled.  Since Dilbert's cancellation, Scott Adams has made various attempts at becoming an influencer.  His latest schtick is to rant on video about various politicized subjects.  His audience is primarily made up of dissatisfied and impressionable young men on Locals.com, Rumble, and Bitchute. 

Scott Adams is one of the lucky few Professional Managerial Class (PMC) who escaped corporate engineer purgatory via his own creativity.  Like many PMC, status is the sword by which he lives and dies, and he is one of those insufferable boors who cannot stop talking about all he has achieved, never once having the suspicion that a good portion of it may have come from luck.  As I have talked about in many an essay, the PMC's push to hang on to unearned wealth, perks, and privileges is the reason why we have quaxx mandates.  Its desperate, clutching egregore is behind the mass formation psychosis that drove the quaxx.  In every corner of the world except parts of Africa, Haiti, and Amish-controlled Pennsylvania, the upper echelon of society decided it was better to prop up Pharmakeia for a few more decades than to look reality in its bloodshot eye and accept lower standards of living for the foreseeable future.  This is nothing new; the world's civilizations have been kicking the Peak Oil can down the road since at least the1970s.  Quaxxing is most prevalent wherever there is shame connected to poverty and wherever the urge to be atheist-progressive PMC is strongest, such as Australia, Israel, and Canada.  On a smaller scale, I have noticed from my personal life that people who are the most attached to social status (no matter what their actual monetary status) are by far the most likely to quaxx and become arrogant about it.  Around here in my northern Illinois suburb, the worst of the quaxx-enforcers were the people running the Holocaust Museum, the DuPage Children's Museum, and the many overblown, multi-million dollar hospital complexes that represent 40% of what remains of the economy these days.  It is no coincidence that all of these places are frequented by the Good People who see their own labors as righteous while they seldom interact in any genuine way with the lower classes who vacuum their floors and put food in the store for them to buy.  

Remove the veils of propaganda and Covid-19 is and always was a class war.  The people who were not afraid to live on the wrong side of the tracks -- the homebirthers, homeschoolers, homesteaders, machine welders, truck drivers, and others who have no interest in working in Dilbert's office for any longer than necessary -- led the charge against the whopping majority who donated their bodies to the quaxx like meat cows to the captive bolt.  The people I feel the most sorry for are the ones who were pushed, coerced, and tricked into taking the quaxx and who eventually succumbed despite knowing better.  The rest of them are unfortunately complicit, because without their unquestioning and credulous order-following, the pressure to quaxx the unwilling could have never existed in the first place.

Scott Adams published a rant a few weeks ago against the quaxx, allegedly claiming to be quaxx-injured.  True to OG 1980s-era toxic masculine form, his obsessive focus in the rant was that he had "lost" and the unvaxxed had "won" because he was suffering symptoms that are extremely common among the Pfizer'd, Johnson'd, and Moderna'd these days.  

We Did Not Want To Be Right

Though it would have been just as easy for the majority of commenters to troll Adams with I TOLD YOU SO, most commenters were extraordinarily graceful despite having suffered devastating and horrific loss of family, friends, and property because of the gullibility of the original wave that got the quaxx into a large number of arms, lungs, brains, hearts, testes, and ovaries.  Here are a few examples:

As you can see, the overwhelming sentiment is that we did not want to win, we did not want to be right, and we all have loved ones for whom we are extremely worried because they succumbed to a shot that is now publicly exposed as toxic, dangerous, and potentially life-ending.  Despite mountains of evidence, there are still people trying to shame the unvaxxed for speaking openly about what is going on.  Heaven forbid we mention the demonic hypothesis -- we are not allowed to do that for fear of reviving the mouldering corpse of ghettoization and pogroms.  Yet it is the unvaxxed who have been treated the most similarly to Jews in the WWII era, and Holocaust survivor Vera Sharav has made a five part documentary explaining the parallels.

Bitter Truth Pills

I was right about the harmlessness of the Covid virus.  I figured it out two weeks after we were allegedly flattening the curve and I was dismayed that so many preferred obvious fearmongering to what they could see in front of their physical, non-electronic eyes: empty hospitals and dancing doctors.  If the quaxxed need to worry about anybody being right, it is Luc Montagnier, the scientist who discovered HIV who warned about the quaxx from the beginning. 

To this day, we have quaxxed 20-something year old kids catching flus and mysteriously watching their legs blacken and rot off.  In the meantime, smiling doctors and nurses gaslight them to believe it was epic coincidence that their expensive amputations and prosthetics just happen to be the result of a garden variety flu bug and not the experimental inoculation.  I did not want to be right about the hideous depravity of these modern day Mengeles.  I did not want to be right about a bunch of dead babies, orphaned children, and maimed young people who will soon stay young forever because they are a few years at best from death.  

When comedian Amy MacDonald toppled onstage after sarcastically claiming Jesus loved her best, I suppose it felt good for a handful of fundie Christians who spend their time gloating about how holy they are and who saw the quaxx as the Mark.  I think the majority of Christians just found it sad.  Like me, I think they saw their own arrogance and ignorance reflected in MacDonald's posturing: let he who has not sinned cast the first stone.  Have I not been just as arrogant and ignorant as poor Amy in my life?  Of course I have -- I can be a real ass when I want to be.  Haven't I been duped and misled because of my arrogance?  The answer is a whopping and resounding YES, sing it to the rafters.  A few minor changes in my earlier life and I would have been one of the potentially arrogant quaxxed, or worse yet, quaxx-injured.  I don't see myself as any better than someone who chose the MRNA vaccines.  Pastor Marva Peschier of Trinidad and Tobago made a viral video after losing her son to the quaxx and was confronted by creepy officials who wanted her to put the cat back in the bag.  Despite being sure the vaccine killed her beloved son, she urged watchers to leave judgement up to God.  

Scott Adams: The Unvaxxed Won.  Or Did They?

Back to Scott Adams.  Not long ago, he began making noises about his "I lost, the unvaxxed won" mea culpa being a prank.  You heard me right: a prank.  Whether he intended to discredit his vaccine injury story or not, he has now shown himself to be a fraudster and a sociopath.  In a hilarious and pathetic bid for more subscribers on Locals, he urged readers to get the real story by buying subscriptions to his account.  Though Adams tried to keep his utterances Louis XIV-vague, the hidden statement he made was clear to anyone who has a semi-working knowledge of attention whores/narcissists.  Adams is an Aesop's fable.  He's the little boy who cried Wolf.  We cannot be sure at this point Adams is MRNA vaccine injured at all, so it is inevitable that his karma is to have any real injury or pain that follows dismissed summarily as a joke.  Unfortunately, Adam's arrogance undermines the legitimacy of any other people who have been affected by vaccine injury as it causes the average person not to trust them.  I urge my readers not to allow Adam's wolf-crying to color your opinion of vaccine-injured who may truly need your help and sympathy.

Adams reminds me of a certain clique of popular boys I knew in high school.  They loved their tech and diversions and would do anything to avoid hands-on labor or common courtesy.  They were allergic to honesty, modesty, and responsibility.  They loved to see how far they could game human sympathy.  Every kind of human suffering was a funny joke to them except their own; their main entertainment was to be cruel to anyone who gave them the time of day.  Adams is the clique member who never grew up.  I am confident that if the clique had any success, every one of these guys either became Dilbert or his evil boss, just as Adams has become the bald version of the black hair-horned evil boss he once parodied. 

How To Slay a Vampire

Scott Adams is cursed, and I take no credit for the job because I don't do that anymore.  Adams is an attention vampire who thinks that he can manipulate the masses via psychological games in order to win the game of life, therefore he has already cursed himself more than any other human this Earth could curse him.  (Spoiler alert: we all die, so nobody wins the game of life.  We are all losers here!)  Attention vampires are common, boring, and banal.  In the near future, I ignore Scott Adams and I suggest you do the same.  Treating the Scott Adamses of the world as if they do not matter enrages them and deprives them of their energy sources.  Leave Scott Adams to his small army of boring yet hysterical incel sycophants -- they are just as bad as their purported leftist foes when it comes to destroying each other in a circular firing squad.  

I am glad the Covid debacle happened in 2020 and not 2010 or 2000 in my case, because before I gave up hexing and cursing, I was quite good at it and I imagine I would have been able to personally score a great deal of damage against people who I both disliked and got the quaxx.  Back then, I used to ignore the collateral damage to my own life, which was much unhappier and fraught with drama.  Hexing and cursing does not work.  The only thing that does is ignoring our own desires to worsen the lives of those who have worsened ours and build on the good we already have in place.  With that in mind, I am off to go do musical things.

This is the cat tree my husband built near our front door.  It is made of PVC plumbing pipes, wood, and sticky-backed industrial carpeting. You can probably see the cats have ripped the carpeting to shreds.  This is in the living room of our small house -- it almost qualifies as a tiny house at 675 square feet.  My recording/lesson studio is actually hidden in this room.  



Below is a picture of some of the cat shelves in my office, a petite room in the front of the house.  The cats can roam and sleep above my desk.  I keep most of my files, makeup, sewing, and other supplies in the mirror-doored IKEA wardrobe by the desk.  Some of you might recognize this little room from my Sphere of Protection video -- it is the same space.  



This is my office window.  The stained glass is fake -- it is a sticker.  The grille is a piece of wall "art" from Hobby Lobby.  I think I paid about $25 for it.  It keeps the cats from trying to bust through the screen.  

Ashley Amore Reed Cocklebur Steele.  This is in the kitchen.  The stools came from a guy in nearby Wheaton from Facebook Marketplace; I think they were $10 each or less.  The seats are pretty beat up and need a refinishing.

Shadow Shadilay Sniffles Spazzimodo Steele.   My husband built the island out of an old IKEA bookshelf we had and added the "wood" laminate top.  The space under the counter has a rolling rack where we store cat food.  The cats also have a covered litter box under there.  We also have a second covered litter box under my office desk and a third one in the bedroom.  

The kitchen -- my husband used our old IKEA bookshelves from past apartments and pulled apart/hacked more IKEA shelves for the walls.  The only cost was the L brackets and the industrial stick-back carpeting so the cats don't slip and slide.  

I have trained both of the cats to fetch but only Shadow likes to show off for photos.

This is yet another IKEA bookshelf, this time with holes cut into it so the cats can weave through to the top.  

Despite the protests of toxic feminists, we are not currently living in an era of toxic masculinity.  Males have been rendered impotent in almost every aspect, up to and including their dwindling sperm counts.  Those of us who are of a certain age have memories of the toxic masculine era under our belts, which used to come attached to garters and remained unseen except in the bedroom.  

Toxic masculinity reached its peak in the early 1990s, just as I was finishing my undergraduate degree at a middle-of-the-road musical college in Chicago, Illinois.  Woke wasn't a thing.  My first encounter with a wokester happened at the end of my undergrad time.  A young man who was a fellow student shamed me for using the acronym BFE while casually conversing about a faraway place.  For those not in the know, BFE stands for Butt-F**king Egypt.  Having no previous encounters of the sort, I simply apologized and moved on.  In hindsight, I now know that what I witnessed with the ritual shaming was the birth of Woke as a religion, and of course I witnessed it in the heart of Chicago, Illinois, the exact sort of urban center where it plies its trade.

For a short time, the push towards political correctness, self-policing one's speech to avoid hurtful stereotypes, and inclusiveness was nowhere near as bitter and Stalinist as it would eventually become.  Woke had a honeymoon phase that I perceived as lasting from approximately 1990 to 2005 or so.

Back in Time

Once upon a time, I was a twelve year old with serious suicidal ideations.  I have the gift/curse of being able to remember that time very well.  The average school day began with me springing awake as my alarm clock blasted the Chicago radio station B96.  The station played Top 40 hits: George Michael, Madonna.  Despite his voice being on the radio ALL THE TIME, I had no idea George Michael was gay and neither did any of my family or friends.  In between the songs, the DJ prank called random people and had somewhat racy conversations with his co-hosts.  The rest of my morning was the hell of trying to make myself look presentable with my glasses, braces, gigantic hair, and cystic acne.  There was often no time to eat, so I would slap together some Skippy peanut butter with a piece of toasted Wonder bread, wash it down my maw with Minute Maid orange juice, and go to school with peanut butter on my face.  At 7 in the morning, my best friend stopped by (on foot) so we could walk to school together.  Though it was kind of her to do so, I had no appreciation of it because I was jealous of her good looks, comparatively clear skin, and advanced ability to adjust to junior high school.  She was normal, I was not.  No matter how hard I tried,  I could not overcome the environment of junior high.  From day one, I had difficulty opening my locker, trouble making it to class on time, chronic fatigue, depression, and severe anxiety.  To put the cherry on top of the cake, I began menstruating at 12 and suffered excruciating cramps.  Though I should have used the opportunity to stay home, I was too much of a fool to do so for fear of missing out.  I believed I was supposed to be having a good time and a good life, so I often convinced myself I was doing just that despite being suicidal.  

The milieu was the toxic masculine 1980s.  It was a man's world, baby, and we all knew it.  The 80s were a time when gay men actually did get beaten to death in America for being gay -- Stephen King did not make that up whole cloth when he wrote a scene in IT where a gay man gets beaten to death by a group of straight thugs.  No wonder George Michael was not out and proud except perhaps in his small circle of friends, agents, and recording executives.  Popular media constantly threw it in our faces that a woman's value was based on her looks.  Even the shoulder-padded, stiff-haired, business-suited career broad was stereotyped with a Patrick Nagle wet dream of a face and a Robert Palmer back-up dancer's body.  My brother had a poster on his bedroom wall of Heather Thomas yanking her bikini up her scrawny hips with a thumb's up gesture.  Some guys still had Farrah Fawcett or Kim Basinger on their walls.  It hardly mattered.  The message of the 80s pinup was simple and directed not at the boys wanking it with surreptitiously borrowed Almay hand lotion -- no, it was aimed squarely at the girls.  The 80s pinups told us THIS IS WHAT PERFECT LOOKS LIKE AND THIS IS WHO YOU MUST BE.  Of course we could not hope to measure up.  Before there was Instagram, there was Photoshop, and because getting a photograph into mass market print was extremely difficult, Photoshopped images were often as convincing as the real thing.  At least the young girls today have the benefit of seeing the Instagram hottie revealed in all of her fat-bulging, saggy, giant-nosed, fakery-exposed glory.  Back then, Photoshop was the domain of professionals.  I did not realize that every photo in every magazine of every woman was airbrushed, nipped, and tucked.  No wonder I was so violently dysmorphic and so schizophrenic over what I saw in the mirror.  I overvalued and undervalued my looks at every opportunity.

Toxic Monotheism

Spirituality is supposed to be a place you can turn when your life sucks as mine did in the 1980s, but the worst examples of toxic masculinity came directly from so-called religious leaders.  At the very bottom, there were the materialistic church moms who meant well, but who worked without any true notion of the God they were extensibly working for.  In the middle were the neighborhood pastors, comfortably numb, upper-middle class doofuses who had lucked into having their own church.  Every weekend, they lectured about life as if they knew anything about what it is to truly live.  Bland, timid suburbanites must invent reasons to lecture other bland, timid suburbanites, and the kept pastors scored symphonies of pablum in order to preserve their cushy, relatively risk-free work and housing situations.  At the top were the televangelists, cruising around in their luxury jets and filling stadia with the tacky, the desperate, and the easily suckered.  Also the apex was the Pope, and none dared question his pedophile-abetting habits until Sinead O'Connor sacrificed her career on Saturday Night Live one evening in 1992.  Suffice to say that God did not seem to be anywhere near a Christian church or a Jewish temple, and to this day seems to avoid those places as far as I am concerned.

The Glory Versus the Actual Work

Outside the church, the same sorts of working astral pyramids dominated in the workaday world, with a huge army of women populating insurance offices, mortgage lenders, telecommunications centers, and retail floors.  Every owner, media mogul, top producer, high level executive, leader, CEO, president, top lawyer, superintendent, et m. was male, yet the success of his organization was heavily dependent on an army of working women taken out of their homes in order to bust heavies 9 to 5 just as men had done in the career sector from pre-WWII years.  Under the guise of female equality, women were expected to make a living while simultaneously making a clean, nurturing home and raising sane, disciplined children.  Anyone who has even witnessed such circumstances knows that making top dollar in a white collar job while successfully raising children is impossible; there simply are not enough hours in the day.  The bottom line was that a mass of women did most or all of the work, but the top of the pyramid was always male.  Beta male managers were the appointed eunuchs watching over the harem of compliant females.  The TL;DR is that women did all the work and men got all of the glory.  Kind of like pregnancy, and it is no wonder abortions were so difficult to attain back then.  A girl or woman who cannot abort a fetus for any reason is in a convenient position: she is trapped.  She is the captive of a man's pleasure, and her life does not matter, especially not over the life of a human who is new to this planet. At her core, she will always be a slut who wanted it even if she was nine years old and raped by her uncle.  It's a man's world, honey, and if you don't like it, kill yourself.  I almost did several times.

Women Do It Better (Depending on What It Is)

The stereotype of men not being able to handle pregnancy is the quiet way in which women whisper among themselves that men are not capable of handling long term commitments where one must follow through such as carrying a child and then raising that child until she or he is an adult.  The saying goes that if men could get pregnant, suddenly all birth control would be free and abortion would be safe and legal.  I don't know to what degree I believe in that saying, but I highly doubt abortion would be anywhere near as stigmatized if both sexes could manage pregnancy with equal success.

The hard facts are that men do certain things better than women and women do certain things better than men.  Of course there is no hard rule for this: I would not want to live in a world where Amelia Earhart never flew a plane by virtue of her being female or where men were shamed for being homemakers because it is largely a female occupation.  When we look at the world of sports, men dominate because they are larger, more muscular, faster, and tougher than women.  When we look at decorating, for the most part men don't have the knack that women seem to naturally possess.  Women can see more colors than men (this is just science, yo) and women have more of an intuitive grasp of the flow of etheric energy within space.  For this reason, my male-dominant, male-designed junior high school was a boxy, ugly prison.  If school had been an elegant, comfortable, lovely space, maybe the energy there would not have been so unrelentingly, poisonously septic.

The Trouble with Wanting to be the Best

Men have a desire to be the best, and this is a seriously problematic way of seeing life.  There is nothing wrong with wanting to achieve, but when you have a pathological drive to beat out the competition in order to sit at the top of a powerful pyramid, this mode of thinking is a collective disaster.  The corporate harem model of the workaday world with a man and his crowd of beta dudes administering armies of women can only elevate so many males.  Just like any form of feudalism, the more kings forced to share limited resources such as labor and land, the more war will be had with king against king.  

As a child, I was extremely preoccupied with adult thoughts and worries about how I would make a living one day.  I was consumed with visions of being a responsible adult long before it was appropriate to think about such things.  At age 9, I began teaching myself to type on a manual typewriter.  By age 15, I could type 80-100 words a minute with perfect accuracy.  I fantasized that I would be a well-paid secretary, dictating and taking calls and memos by day and returning to my pretty apartment in the downtown area of a quaint suburb via train at night to my cats and my books.  Sadly, this vision never materialized as cost of living made it impossible.  Little did I know that what I was actually good at (aside from typing) was teaching music, which is at best a bohemian existence unless you are one of the few willing to make an influencer presence out of yourself, which at this time I am not.  Humans being what they are, I had a dual fantasy at the time of being a top singer/performer, and this was a far more destructive dream.  No matter what, I was determined to be THE BEST at whatever my career was to be, and being a team player or just a participant held no interest.  School bored me because I was seldom THE BEST and in fact, I won awards so rarely in school, I grew to hate it by the fourth grade.

It is the nature of women to cooperate, congregate, patch together, and manipulate.  It is the nature of men to discover, conquer, and dominate.  There is nothing inherently wrong with either of these two natures.  There is no labeling them as good or evil either.  They are what they are.  

Men have more of a need to be seen as experts as women, to "mansplain" without bothering to find out if the woman has more expertise on the subject.  Women have less of a tendency to tie up their egos in being experts in any particular field.  This is why until relatively recently men dominated the world of celebrity cooking.  Aside from Julia Child, masters of cuisine where almost all males despite women being saddled with most of the cooking (outside of Army mess halls) for the last six thousand years.  The fashion world is similar.  Despite the fact that women have and always have made most of the clothing, men get the glory.  Top female designers weren't much of a thing even during the halcyon days of Coco Chanel -- she was a tiny minority in a sea of male names such as Balenciaga and Fortuny.  

The current debacle of trans rights has to do with men who are jealous of women and who insist they can become better at womanhood than actual women, as if anyone would actually want to do that.  Lia Thomas, formerly William Thomas, rose to fame by outcompeting every female on her team.  Among males, she only placed as number 16 or 17 in any given competition, despite being 6'1" and not suffering a monthly period.  Lia had such a compulsive need to be THE BEST at swimming, she was willing to place herself in a kiddie pool of sorts to do it rather than being forced to lose among her fellow biological males.  It is unsurprising to see female-to-male transexuals sinking into the wallpaper for the most part -- male to female has always been a far more vocal and attention-hungry segment of the trans population.  For this reason, there is no burgeoning population of trans machine welders, Navy captains, and lumberjacks seeking the media's spotlights. 

Males are the ones who need to be experts: they want to be the consulted, not the ones seeking consultation.  For whether the male is a declared male or female, he needs to be Top Dog.  This is the formula.  To be feminine, quiet, unassuming, cooperative, and receptive means that the attention will not come and that you cannot seed the world with your influence.

Speaking of Influencers

Career influencers are essentially masculine by nature, even the ones who are mothers of eight and who make a living showing off their phases in home decor.  They spermatically attempt to scatter themselves all over the world, seeking out receptive egg fields where they can plant their flags.  In our current world where making an honest living is more difficult than ever before, the lure of influencing to fill one's coffers with cash and goodies is extremely tempting.  Influencing makes it much easier to declare oneself an expert, even if it is only at looking pretty, while seeding the world with one's own self-manufactured celebrity.   In spite of all I have just said, I have no problem with influencers; in fact, I follow many of them and support a limited few because they are often experts just as promised.  

Back to the Future

In the 1990s, the tide started shifting towards toxic femininity, a subject to which I plan on devoting a full essay in the near future.  The 1990s were far more tolerant of gay people and even somewhat kinder towards ugly, geeky 12 year old girls with braces, glasses, and unfortunate skin and hair.  We began to see drugstore makeup shades in darker colors than Pasty White Girl.  School bullies who formerly skated for beating up anyone who did not toe the Biff Tannen party line of BE LIKE ME OR ELSE actually started getting in trouble.  The baby was not to go out with the bathwater until 2005 or so when internet censorship began getting out of hand and LGBT+ rights spiraled into a battle to install a neo-Marxist, Borg hive mind.

I have no advice to give in this case -- these are just my observations of dealing with toxic masculinity from the front lines of being a woman.  This essay may become more than one as I may have more observations as time goes by. 

I recently had a lively conversation with fellow occultist Luke Dodson of the Dodcast about demons, the role of demons in the MRNA quaxxines, and the manifestations of a specific demon from the Goetia in the film Hereditary. 

You can listen to it here:

https://flintandsteel.substack.com/p/dodcast-38-kimberley-steele#details

I did a series of Ogham readings in 2021 for both vaccinated and unvaccinated people over the span of many years.  I did a reading for the vaxxed and unvaxxed spanning several months as well as a longer forecast for unvaxxed and vaxxed spanning many years.  This is a follow up on part of the multi-year forecast that is now in the recent past: Winter 2022.
 

Sadly, the prediction of mass death forecast by my Ogham is currently playing out.  The vaxxed are dying or being disabled at the rate of about 7500 people a day.  All around me, anecdotal evidence piles up among the vaxxed.  Vaxxed kids are not just getting sick, they’re coming close to death every time they get sick and becoming just a bit weaker with every random flu.  I do not have any confidence that such unhealthy children will be able to have their own children when the time comes, but as I have long said, humans are easy to sicken and hard to kill.  The sickest kids I knew as a child went on to have one or more children as adults, and as much as some will say IT’S DIFFERENT THIS TIME, what gives me hope for the human race is it seldom is different this time. 

Two neighbors (that I know of, I don’t know all the people in my neighborhood) have died in the last 3 years.  A 30-something year old had a debilitating stroke and is still re-learning how to talk.  A kid in the local high school dropped dead suddenly and unexpectedly during a choir concert.  A relative died over a span of weeks of turbo-cancer after being in remission for several years.  My husband’s bandmate had a mysterious death in the hospital mere hours after being diagnosed with “Covid”.  These anecdotes, along with extremely damning data pertaining to female fertility where the quaxx is concerned, lead me to suspect that we may be looking down the barrel of a slow moving Apocalypse.  The civilized world is going to go through some seismic changes over the next 20-40 years, and one of those things will be a dramatic reduction in population any place where vaxxers used to throng, such as most of the US.  These seismic shifts are our Black Death, except ours was self-inflicted not by lack of sanitation, but in the frantic urge to over-sanitize our own bodies by attempting to re-engineer our immune systems with MRNA nano-technology.  I don’t think it takes a genius to figure out what the “N” stands for in BioNtech — it seems to me it is a fairly direct reference to the nano-structures and dare I say nanobots.  These are the clever little graphene oxide lifeforms populating the current crop of so-called vaccines that are now being rolled out in a childhood schedule near you when they are not flooding your local Walgreens/CVS in the form of the flu shot.  Normies, beware, but don’t say we didn’t warn you.

For Winter of 2022, my Ogham provided three cards, all ill-dignified for the Unvaxxed. 

Just as predicted, the Unvaxxed are going through a spate of darkness.

The first card the Unvaxxed drew was Tinne or Defense ill-dignified.  Remember that in my system, the ideal or well-dignified position of any given Ogham tree letter represents Aristotlean balance whereas ill-dignified represents either extreme on the pole of imbalance.  The Unvaxxed have a lack of balance right now, both over-defense and defenselessness.  We are in the process of creating a new, alternative medical system that will focus on holistic well-being.  In my group Speakeasy Illinois, most of the posts are about finding doctors and veterinarians who do not mask or push vaccines, and the majority of those tend to be holistic medics who do not subscribe to “tech will fix everything” insanity.  We the Unvaxxed are in a bad place though, as millions of us have lost our jobs and livelihoods and must scramble to keep a roof overhead if we are lucky enough to do that.  As the Ogham predicted, there are many people with nothing left to lose.  2023 is the year I expect violence to erupt against MRNA drug pushers of various statuses, as the hashtag #fauciliedmillionsdied ignites anger among people who have nothing left to lose.

The second card referring to the Situation of the Unvaxxed is Koad or Grove.  Koad talks about the factors influencing the whole and provides a bird’s eye view snapshot of the current situation.  Again, this card is ill-dignified, which means the black-pill people are having their moment of triumph.  Lots of unvaxxed people are gloating about having intact immune systems, and such gloating merely paints karmic targets on their backs and the backs of their own loved ones, who end up by hook or by crook within the same vicinity.  My suggestion is that people in glass houses should neither gloat nor throw stones, because you never know how that energy will come back your way or if you can deflect it once it does.  Trust me, I know, and that’s why I don’t do that anymore.  Anyone who is in a fragile corporate niche job needs to have a back up plan, and that plan should include a dramatic downscaling of his or her lifestyle.  This is not to say that all corporate niche jobs will disappear; they won’t.  Many will.  But to cling on to such a lifestyle is a set up for dramatic failure.  If you can encourage your non-egghead kids to stay far away from college and its ensuing debt, do that.  Of course one size never fits all.  I went to music college and I am glad I did; I use the skills that resulted in my degree every single day.   If you can wean yourself off of traveling by plane, that would be a good idea too.  Another good one is to wean yourself off of non-homemade food and to any limited extent you can, grow some of your own food and herbs.

For the third card of the doozy that is Winter 2022 for the Unvaxxed, they got Mór or Sea Change.  There is a pall over the Unvaxxed.  I myself have come to the harsh realization that the vaxxed have done themselves in, and with them goes civilization itself.  The horrific karma being generated by this event is too much for my tiny brain to grok or bear.  I can no more understand its forces and aftermath than I can figure out how to swim out of a tsunami.  Collapse happens one person at a time; this year I spurned one of my vaxxed relatives who was especially obnoxious over the last couple of years.  I don’t anticipate ever seeing her or her child again unless it is at a wedding or a funeral.  Personally, I have somehow managed to re-build a full schedule of private music students after ending my 13 year turn in a commercial space as a lesson studio.  Walking away is necessary and it also hurts.  I walked away early and avoided the rush.  Others aren’t as lucky as me.   They lost their parents or their children to the MRNA vaccines whereas I lost my aunt.  They weren’t able to scrap together a new livelihood… yet.  They are the ones who either must gracefully let go of what they have lost or go down the path of vengeance.  I used to belong to the vengeance club and there’s nothing I fail to understand about it.  As much as it seems counterproductive to put aside your vengeance, I am living proof that the best revenge is living well, and living well means leaving judgement up to the gods.

Now for the Vaxxed follow up readings in Winter 2022.

Eerily, the Ogham provide Ioho or Grace to refer to the most immediate card for the Vaxxed this winter.  Ioho is a card of endings, letting go, and death.  It is well-dignified, which is to say the vaxxed are going to their fate without much of a fight.  It is estimated that 6.5 million people have died directly from the vaccine, but I think the number is much higher.   Deaths seem to be accelerating as we embark upon the new year.  A Telegram channel I follow called t.me/covidbc reports that there are now too many “died suddenly” confirmed MRNA-dosed posts to keep up with them all.  The interesting part here is the essentially suicidal nature of the Vaxxed as a whole.  The urge to take the vax comes from the urge to either enter or remain in the professional managerial class.  I believe this urge was driven by a specific set of demons, among which is the demon Paimon.  For the vaxxed, even as they go to their deaths, they fully expect to be rewarded in the afterlife for their noble sacrifice.  From my conversations with the dead over the last couple of years, I find that many vaxxed people who die of the vax are shocked to learn that taking the vax was a deal with demonic forces and that the resulting karma can be harsh and potentially very long lasting.

For the second card, the Vaxxed also got Koad or Confluence much like the Unvaxxed for this era.  This means that the Vaxxed and Unvaxxed are very much in the same predicament, but in the case of the Vaxxed, it is well-dignified, which means the Vaxxed who have managed to hold on to their livelihoods are benefiting from the rewards society still ladles upon them for being virtuous and obedient.  There are plenty of corporate seats in the game of musical chairs that are currently open due to the sudden and unexpected deaths of young college grads and former middle managers.  I would argue that this was the point of adhering to vax mandates: to free up salary class positions for the Darwinian fittest and their offspring.  The Vaxxed who have survived don’t always have health problems and may never suffer anything of the sort.  Koad also speaks of the convergence of realizations, and I think the Vaxxed are finally beginning to see the big picture of what they’ve taken part in.  

For the third card, the Vaxxed drew Quert or Delight ill-dignified.  This is not at all surprising.  As I mentioned on John Michael Greer’s blog, this year there was a marked absence of shopping mall stampedes at Christmas and after it.  Some of this was due to people doing what the TV told them to do for the third year in a row, but more of it was due to the harsh realization that credit debt is not sustainable forever, nor do we want it to be.  The bottom line is that the dream of the Vaxxed to enter the hallowed halls of the salary class via obedience and consumerism is over.  They were not grateful for what they had, no matter how much they had, and that is why it has been taken away.  Those who do have great unearned wealth are now discovering that an $800 bottle of champagne might as well be stale piss if you can only barely drink it from a straw held up by a home nurse.  Health is wealth, my friends, and only those who learn to work with the forces of nature to heal their bodies have any shot at being healthy.  Meat World sucks!  

Happy New Year and may gods bless you for not swearing in the comments.