Scorched Soul

Ghost Sickness Gives And Receives

Under Wraps, original art by the author, MK'26

The snow

Doesn't have any questions.

Doesn't know the answers.

Doesn't care how one feels.

The Mummy

Might be pretty and scary.

Might have once wondered.

Might have feared destiny.

The heavens

Stir with mighty force.

Stir the swirl of events.

Stir the thirst of terror.

Puppets on a string.

Wrapped so carefully.

Bandaged fire victim

Fell upon ice and snow.

Ghosts ready to ride

Since they lost their lives

Fighting against rigid time.

The banquet was set, long tables, white linens, generous plates. The organizer stood next to the host, and whispered into his ear, the question regarding the amount of food available. The host looked over the proceedings, almost certain that correct portions were here upon provided.

Men without regard to rank, officers bedecked in flamboyant hats, shining golden embroidery, smart trim contrasting to the grey of their coats, sitting with privates wearing worn caps, disheveled uniforms, slinking with a most non military presence.

The Confederate army launched its first and most powerful strike. They crossed the Rio Grande to do battle with Union forces dug in on the opposite bank. The casualties were heavy. Grey clad dead stained the river red, whence the cavalry charge silenced the Union battery under the ring of the sabre and rebel yells.

The desert will take everything. It will ensure you have no defenses. It will separate the real from the imagined, perhaps leave a few standing in the wind, shivering in their underwear, to record the happening.

Their ghosts were now seated at the banquet, no more blood to swell the big river, no more pain as their life force was wrenched away. Zero expectation, thus they dined as men who have little to be thankful for. The aura of menace and danger clung in the air, became one with it, indistinguishable. Dead veterans from an incomplete victory, their life force long ago devoured by the desert spirit, every one of them a Christian with no comprehension of their fate. It is said in ancient times that the dead called up special access to knowledge, yet no longer. These men were born when the only thing anyone pondered, was if there was anything after they met their undoing.

The officer in charge stood in the short darkened corridor that linked the dining hall with the brightly lit open ballroom, made ready for the after hours music and relaxing. I faced him and as our gazes met. I watched the red fire flash through them. We said nothing, we didn't need to. The cold of the soul, the snow on the heart. Soldiering has always been about a certain form of evil, the ability and the willingness to deal death.

The ghosts, they might go riding, attach themselves to someone living, fill their mount with unexamined urges, bring unhappiness and sorrow for such fixation. The rider will only rarely reveal themselves to their living vehicle, providing for them an identity, a path that never was theirs. The gift of the dead.

Finally, we are given a glimpse into the mystery of Mistletoe.

The blurred distinction between parasitism and symbiosis, liminal and evergreen.

Conventional thinking states that personality is intrinsic, a facet of being. The is-ness just develops, assuming that one survives into adulthood. There is no admission, much less recognition that there are or could be other forces at work.

Ghosts can come to ride at any time of life. Vulnerable moments when the animal spirit goes wandering, which is often. Ghosts will especially bond with the young, it can happen most often when shock or injury occurs.

Franz Barton was still a teenager. He went universally unadmired. Many thought he wouldn't recover from the damage. At some point Franz awoke, and when he resumed his life the people who had known him said he wasn't Franz, he was an entirely different person.

The Ghost will find that fault line, that invisible opening. It will move in and attach itself. It might hurt. It might not fit. It might be be unwanted, semi-conscious, it begins its work almost imperceptibly.

There are signs, oh yes there are signs that one has fallen into Ghost Sickness. No one will understand them, unless one knows the possessed. Yet it isn't all horrible, or terrible, the Ghost Sickness mantle. Sometimes as with Franz they come bearing great gifts that balance the burden.

In America where Ghost Sickness is common there is no help for the person. One is condemned as being possessed by Christendom's demons, or told to suck it up, to tough it out, its seen as weakness, autism, mental illness, or worst of all, stupid and insipid indulgence, if its recognized at all.

Sometimes even benefic presences from one's own history can cause problems. This happens most commonly when the possessed can't handle the power, or the dark side of their rider.

Yet benefic Ghosts are almost always from a flow congruent to one's own. They follow the individual's flow of reincarnation, transmigration, most strongly. They do this unconsciously. Ghosts that cause all kinds of disorders are almost always from outside one's own flow, leaping across the wires of generational communication, wires like riptides. America is religiously fond of damming flows, which is a salient reason why Americans suffer greatly from Ghost Sickness, the dark side of spiritual possession, they have no set lineage, no flow of the river to draw from.

No one in the modern world, not the gatekeepers and the ruiners who set policy, or the salt of the earth types who keep society moving will accept this, yet it is with animal certainty most definitely true. Ghosts are Mistletoe, very helpful in some important places, and detrimental in others.

This is not to say that within any one lineage there is no dysfunction. Certainly any river can fail. The aristocracy is notable in this way, yet there is a congruence and a harmony that moves like a ley line through the generations, which becomes a familiar friendly environ to one's dead predecessors.

Ghost Sickness is most virulent when the bond is with strangers. The lack of any harmonization, the competing interests, the provided identity in arrears with the deepest semi-conscious aims of reincarnation.

Confusion.

Fear.

Sorrow.

The blurring of lineage is an old Abrahamic tool of dominance and control. Whence Charlemagne finally prevailed against the Saxons, he set about doing what he could to poison their root, prosecuting the mass murder of men and children, arranging the gang rape of thousands of women, he was intentionally working to end any pure Saxon pedigree. Claiming to strange portents with his desecration of the Irminsul, the women who survived his Christian hospitality were forced into small non-familial groups, and summarily deported to distant places, where they would be absorbed into the local population. His final act was to force a distant tribe to relocate into Saxony, to ensure that any remnant Saxon spark was confused and drowned in the new blood.

The great Christian King was a master of genocide and lineage blurring.

Abrahamism was and is the first globalism. It remains a force of homogenization in the world today. The majority of Christians are not European, spread out across the world, from Africa to Asia and across the Americas, embracing the Jewish god.

Islam's most aggressive conversions are now spreading into old Christian territory, Arab culture is exported to Indonesia, where people with no desert lineage behave as if they were it's rightful purchasers. They have their fantasy of the final day when the last non Muslim falls and Islam is the one single global religion.

Judaism is most famously a story of the acclimitization of myriad different peoples, a chameleon with no origin, an ethnicity that isn’t, a history in the bible that is a theft, a concoction of the mythology of previous cultures, all despised for their achievements. Genetic testing reveals dozens of influences, except for the Black African Jews, who are truly African, and were sent away by the ruling Ashkenazi, removed from the new “Jewish State” against their hopes and wishes.

We even have the physical record of lineage blurring as an institution of Abrahamic power. Perhaps one might be interested to note that the famous Christian Coronation Mantle is bordered with Arabic writing.

Confusion of lineage is now a modern ideal, something held in high esteem, a badge of great thinking and evolved living. No one seems to consider, or gives the slightest credence to the actual goals of globalism as they are promoted, the destructive forces that build centralized power, or how lineage blurring serves this agenda.

No one wants to hear this.

No one wants to accept that the Covid injections were fashioned by globalist rulers, deployed as spiritual warfare. Is it so unbelievable that the pattern of inoculation closely followed the rejection of lineage? That a new loyalty to medicine and it's demands destroyed friendships and broke families? Injections have been rightly condemned, in that they directly threaten one's pattern of individual reincarnation, obscuring the truth that containment of pandemic insanity came from only higher power, not the medical industry.

The confusion works to the advantage of those who seek power over other people.

Civil War Ghosts, gathered at the banquet, ancestors all whose humanity is denied, reviled by modern human traffickers and slavers as something horrible.

While they were men they strapped on the uniform, and picked up the rifle, fighting for their way of life that the Industrial Revolution, a global power game, and the bankers, Rothschilds-who agitated for the war-declared was over.

Monolithic Abrahamic Globalism.

They got their way.

Poison the spirit, inflict the damage, twist and manipulate.

Ghost sickness is everywhere in America today.

I was at the synagogue to honour my dead friend. Days before I had a vision of his insensate spirit pulled from his body. I felt it as being very heavy, before it released and dispersed. I came out of it when the phone rang, it was his wife, calling crying, sobbingly telling me he was dead. It just happened.

I didn't tell her I already knew.

The Rabbi asked me to write something, so I did. He took passages of the eulogy and incorporated them into his presentation.

I didn't like being in the synagogue. It was huge, impersonal, uninteresting. The bathroom stank like many somethings had died there. On the wall in the big room was the ancient Tantric symbol of the interwoven triangles, now appropriated with mangled meaning. I shrugged inside, sick modern world.

I went and sat on an open bench. I took off my hat. Sitting there I began to get the strangest impression. It was a powerful sense of fear. I couldn't place it, but it wouldn't go away either. I looked up at the ceiling. Huge wooden beams were bolted somewhat rudely together, they supported the skylights and made a kind of log like lattice. I could almost see them there, grey and moving, terrified Jewish dead unable to leave the living, or embrace the oblivion they were avoiding.

Materialism is the child, the natural development of Abrahamism.

If anything, the great scientific revolution, the triumphant march of materialism, is the absolute in spiritual reductionism. A logical progression, extending from abrahamic propagandistic appropriation and destruction of the subtle senses.

The Irish immigrants who were conscripted right off the ship had no idea what they were being enslaved to accomplish, bedecked in the Union Blues. Even today, it crosses few minds that the wondrous ‘Enlightenment' achieved its ascendancy through war and slavery.

The current globalist materialist control complex states flatly that there is no such thing as a Ghost. The dead body produces nothing besides compost. It is a nihilistic yet comforting belief to those who live their lives according to closed system ideals, an odd liberation, where there is no further concern beyond this physical world.

Materialism requires a certain belief system in order to function, Abrahamism paved the way through establishing a new baseline, that belief was devoid of experience, a vacuum into which materialism rushed in with self assurance.

Scientific materialism, as with abrahamism, has already reached its apex of development. There is no room to move forward, no great discoveries waiting to happen, no future of flying cars and robots powered by nuclear energy, only the mad unhappy dismantling of an obsolete world view. A dismantling which is now occurring at an incredible speed.

The giants of their time, righteous slayers of those who made the world before them, now grow jaundiced and irrelevant, even as the ghosts of those they crushed attend their feast, to this very day clad in the raiment that provided symbol and meaning.

One wonders if corporate sycophants will in the future have their own ghostly gathering. Somehow this seems quite doubtful, since corporate culture finds absolutely nothing but self preservation worthwhile.

I looked around the desert. My gaze was drawn to him in a winter splendor. He stood in the place where the sun never warmed the dessicated wraps. His black stovepipe hat was popular men's attire during the civil war. His long red wool scarf wrapped around his neck with ample ends to flap in the wind.

I became fascinated, even at the distance where I perched, wondering at his coal black eyes and his carrot like nose. He moved rather normally, especially for one who had just emerged from the solitude and darkness of the tomb.

Surrounding him were ordinary men. They seemed to be doing his bidding. Even though I never heard him speak, his wishes were well represented in the actions of those around him, buisy and working.

Behind him loomed the dark passage he had stepped from, a deep black rectangular opening in the rock, impenetrable in the smarting sunlight.

In the way of the ancients time was a god, and the whole world was living. Statues could be made into a home for disembodied intelligences, as they would, look, blink, and move at various times. The practice of Idolatry, was never as is commonly portrayed. It was never a primitive worship of some external form. Thus the River was the essence of a woman, a goddess, alive and animate, intensely real.

In the way of the ancients, when everything was alive, everything could talk to the person and the person could be in communication with that power behind the world of visibility.

There is no dead world, actually, only dead people, dead senses, dead thinking. Modern monsters think their wealth and power frees them to behave in self indulged horrors that make them feel something, anything. I do not follow them. I never will.

I raised my arm to get the attention of the people at work around me. My arm was thick, white, wrapped in linen. I was the Abominable Snow Mummy, staring through coal black stone eyes.