Wolven Thieves

Freedom of Illusion

In pondering the unobservable we deduce the facts about the observed aspects. Life is terminal. We are born to die and, die we will but there is an invasive algal plume of ignorance and obstinate non observance of the living that ignores the unspoken fate of us all. We cannot accept death. We refuse it’s power, it’s authority and it’s inevitability: Life in its finality. Life is irrevocably determined to terminate in its own severance.

A White Horse and a Bow

“It is a terrible day that awaits history to write. I sit here at home and consider all I have researched to realise that the rider on the white horse with a bow has been given a crown. As we approach 1260 days from that time we know the end is close. The end of peace. The rider will go out and declare war on Israel and that will be it: game over. The last cards in the fame are being played out and we know who will win, but the players are unaware that they are mere pawns in something greater and more ancient than they realise. The daily politics are a plaything in the chess of life. There are only two players: America and Iran. Somebody is going to drop a nuclear bomb on Damascus very soon. Who drops it, I don’t know. The Israelis will get the blame and America will turn against Israel and create (has created) an aliiance with Iran. All the Middle East will turn and declare war on Israel. She will last just 2 days.”

There are so many people with so many ideas and suppositions about the last days that there are as many varieties of interpretations of biblical as to create a canonical species list of belief system ideas. With this very issue being at the forefront of my mind I set out to find the truth according to the inspired word of God in English and research it as it appears in the ancient Greek. The above is a sample of what happens when a grain of truth is mixed with populist propaganda. What follows from here is not.

“What happens when you die?”

So you’re thinking of going to Heaven? I call bullshit! I have evidence that contradicts your belief. The Bible is quite clear on this and life after death in the spirit world is a pagan ideology. The truth is somewhat different and so radically different that it is revolutionary. When you die you’re dead, end of story… until the day of resurrection when you will be restored to life to face judgment by Jesus Christ on the great white throne. Somewhere between the death of the apostles around 70 A.D. and 2016 the truth was distorted and twisted to become another propaganda gospel. This isn’t some Jehovah’s Witness theology chat, it’s written from beginning to end of the bible. When you understand what the book of Revelation is about and what it means to the rest of the bible you suddenly understand why a Messianic Christian will be obedient to the commandments of God and Jesus unto death. In time I aim to complete this work and expository journey to benefit those who are lost and questioning the reality of modern life and Christianity as a religion.

new camera nikon d5300 for christmas

I was reading a photography forum online and srumbled over this little ad:

“new camera nikon d5300 for christmas.

“now all I need are some hints and tips on how to use it. currently it remains on auto setting and 99.9% of the other functions are a complete mystery to me.”

My first impression was that if you get something like this and you wanted it then you must have figured out that you’d know what it could do and a pretty good idea of how to get it to do that using… oh for Pete’s sake, woman, put it back in the box and give it back telling them you’re too stupid to use it and save the rest of the world the trouble of solving your problems for you. Is there a code to me it is for this reason and people like this that we have mediocre photographers in the world today and the professional photography world is suffering as a result. The entry level cameras are so good that people think they are easy to operate and that by using high-end equipment ab come.in photographers well I have news for you you stepped off the boat and started drowning instantly. The audio function is a just encase feature for someone who is taking opportunity shots like Street photography or maybe they taking photos of birds or something that’s moving really slowly and maybe even because some damn fool had the stupidest idea of handing over hi and equipment to complete idiot you know nothing about cameras for digital. There is however some light at the end of the tunnel and that is a very, very, very long tunnel taking many, many years to travel through it and come out the other end actually keen to continue photography with that same type of camera. For most people the best course of action is return the camera to where it came from and get themself an expensive compact camera. It won’t have the same result pictures that you get with us DSLR and that they’d probably be better because the compact camera is well suited your lack of knowledge. Photography is not something that is simple and easy to jump into and expect brilliant Ansell Adams results or Jim Henderson fame all your uncelebrated life, no. That is the Muppets view of reality. The best images are often a freak off-chance attempt to capture something that was rare and unformulated with incredible accuracy and deftness of eye and hand and shutter and aperture and ambient light and lense type and framing setup… hang on. This sounds like a load of effort to gain that simple glorious shot? Yes dearie. Now will you please put that expensive bit of equipment away before you make all the professionals look like complete fools by brand association. Point and shoot a DSLR camera is not. How dare you debase such an incredible device to something as base as a focus-free snapshot camera that fits on a mobile phone, a spy pen or even a watch. DSLR means business. Money-making business. It also means avoid unless you are keen to waste a lot of time doing nothing but learning for many years and hours poring over photos of others and investment of exorbitant amounts of money to achieve mediocrity at best and invisibility at worst.

A website aimed at aspiring photographers pointed this out as I write this article. Go take a look here.

To Swear or Not to Swear…

It’s the great writer’s debate: To swear, or not to swear, that is the question—
Whether ’tis Nobler in the mind to suffer
The Slings and Arrows of outrageous abuse,
Or to take Arms against a Sea of trolls,
And by opposing, end them? To die, to sleep—
No more; and by a sleep, to say we end
The Heartache, and the thousand Natural shocks That Flesh is heir to? ‘Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep,
To sleep, perchance to Dream; Aye, there’s the rub,
For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal fame coil,
Must give us pause. There’s the disrespect
That makes Calamity of so long a life:
For who would bear the Whips and Scorns of critics,
The Oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s demise,
The pangs of despised Love, the Law’s delay,
The insolence of Office, and the Spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his Quietus make
With a bare Bodice and lady? Who would these infidels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered Country, from whose burm
No Traveller returns, Puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of.
Thus swearing does make Cowards of us all,
And thus the Native hue of embarrassment
Is sicklied o’er, with the rosy-cheeked cast of realisation,
And enterprises of great pitch and moment,
With this regard their Currents turn awry,
And lose the name of expletive in contempt.

Yes. Thank you, Bill Wobbledagger. That song and dance made famous and bent to the errant will of thousands upon thousands of scribes…upon your behest and imagination to us all bequeathed. Is it too much to announce the experimental shit and consequently lose the imbued emotion of the outrageous and definitive bastard letter F? Luck is one thing. Duck is an action followed by a grouse. Whatever follows fuck ought to enhance it’s appeal rather than announce its commonality. The banal placement of any expletive to the point of hegemony is sheer boisterous laziness in the extreme. Abuse in expletives, by expletives for the sheer availability of expletives denies the real pungent flavour of emotion they should convey and somehow don’t through abundant use and wear.

Sometimes they are abused to the point of ignorant ignominy and drown in valueless prosperity of use. The London accent surely enhances the dappled use of the vile word age that it even begins to sound marginally pleasant to listen to the litany of almost pious worship of linguistic filth fly so salaciously from their cockneyed lips. It’s the words. The precision of their rude placement and juxtaposition with royalty and class themes. That’s the key to eloquent elucidation and veracity of phrase that ought to expose the grunting life of the purest theater in verbal expression.

Cry foul and let loose the words of raw!

The story of modern Easter

http://m.huffpost.com/us/entry/6982358

So I ask myself every year…
“What the hell does an egg laying rabbit have to do with a crucifixion? What does a chicken have to does with Christ’s death?” I have no love for December 25th bring the birthday message of Christ. As far as I can tell it’s all lies. Easter and Christmas. All lies. The Valentine’s day bull is the worst offender. I hate them all but Christmas the most.

For this piece, I’m going to concentrate on Easter because it is that time of year. Please comment on this bit. I’d like to hear how much you’ve been deceived by commercial gain and tradition.

Unbelievable Discovery!

It’s my family’s fault that Scotland and England are tied together in a partnership that millions are upset about right now. If not for the dear woman who bravely did what she did, then Scotland would be independent today and have its own rule of law without the rule of Westminster over them. Yes, I know that it is an astounding claim to make but it is true. My gran told me the story but not until now at nearly 4am on 31st March, 2015 on the doorstep of national elections have I realised the import and courage of a single woman. I really need to find that little green A5 hardcover book my gran wrote. All these stories she heard handed down trough her grandparents to her and this is one of them. I shall name the lass Marie. It’s probably Anne or something more primordial prior to Queen Victoria because the story is older than even that monarch.

The Tale of the Golden Pocket Watch

Please remember that this story is based upon facts I have not yet researched. There may be inconsistencies that need clarification and dates and names that are confused, but it is nonetheless true. It is not a story available on the Internet prior to me telling it. If it does exist, I’ve net yet heard or read anything about it so therefore you will be able to learn the truth for yourself.

I’ve already told you about the mystery of the stolen Victoria Cross. We know where that medal is. In this tale, we don’t know where the stolen item went or even who has it or worst scenario: it has been destroyed or hidden in a treasure hoard somewhere that will not be found. I dearly hope that the provenance I provide here will one day meet with the fate of that golden pocket watch… the one that went missing from all living knowledge and memory in my family. I may be the last living member who knows this story and it must be told. Geez, I talk too much!

It was a torrid time. It was aDangerous time. The entire country was on high alert looking for this one man. There was a huge reward on his head if he was discovered and turned over to the right people. They would kill him. No beating about the bush, he was a dead man running. I don’t know what he was running for or why they wanted him, but he was on the run. A wealthy man upon whom the history of the 18th, 19th, 20th and 21st century politics of what would one day be called Great Britain rested. Not just the Welsh, but the English and the Scots and the Irish too.

Fleeing from Edinburgh, I presume, on horseback, by cart, on foot and by boat. This is the making of the great nation of the United Kingdom of Great Britain, Northern Ireland and her colonies. Thus, one man whom had been chosen to change the fate of centuries of Status Quo beyond easy redemption. He did not know this nor would he ever know it, but I do. It dawned upon me with great shock and horror what Marie has done all those hundreds of years ago in the south west near Cornwall or somewhere like that. Devonshire even…

Marie was a quiet woman who lived alone. She was an ordinary woman whom loved the idea of royalty and riches but was really just a simple lass. I believe her husband had died not too long before and that the estate she lived upon was his. That brings up an interesting question as to how she managed to remain a widow for so very long a time and keep the property. I must investigate that. Maybe she sold it and lived as a tenant in the cottage on the edge of the farm. A little thatched cottage made homely and warm in the silence of the chill autumnal air. It may have been any season, but I choose autumn or fall as the Americans would later call it. America hadn’t even been discovered at this juncture. The old world was The Whole World and the earth was Flat. Everyone knew that. Even the church said it was flat.

The same church that employed rather devious men to hunt witches: Salem had it easy. This church was all about power, superstition and evil skulduggery. The authority was given to a single man to represent God almighty on earth. I don’t know which man gave this man that authority but it certainly was not God Himself! Sometime about 325 years after Christ vanished in a blinding flash of light into heaven, some bloody idiot decided to decree that Saint Peter, who was a rabbit (that’s a whole different story right there!), would be the founding father for the special church that is named Holy Roman Catholic Church today. They even modified the bible to include their name in it so that the more literate plebs would… remember the pleb gate story? Hah! I have a good one too… yes, the semi-leterate plebs would believe what the written word meant. Of course you have to believe every word that is written on the Internet today because it ties up with other stories on the Internet that get edited to match each other which means they must be true, aren’t they?

It was all Greek to them. Even those who could read. Some clever dick decided to learn Latin and made reading the bible nigh impossible by translating it into Latin. The fools. Damn fools. So much history was list in that translation and so many errors introduced. We don’t even know if they destroyed the good original copies of the ancient texts. How did they come to posess those texts in the first place? Have you ever thought of that before? 400 years after Christ and the Catholic Church already had original text of the first bibles. No codex’. Codices? Ffs. Sidetracked again! So much in my head that wants to go walkies around the world.

Yes. 325 A.D. the church was founded. That is where it began. The church. Back to the time of Jesus Christ. Look at that! My story goes back to the time of Christ! Who can say that of their family history? Oh, almost every single European… not so important now. Miniscule importance except for Marie… why did she do that?

Whatever happened to her prized gold pocket watch that that man gave her, I wonder. Where in the world is it today? It was a treasured family heirloom for many, many years. It passed from each generation into the hands of the next for about 4 or 5 generations and then it faded out of knowledge and was lost from legend into myth in the mists of time. If it exists today it will be worth a fortune with this provenance.

The man fled! The roundheads were gaining on him and now everyone knew he was running! He couldn’t trust a soul because his life was forfeit if they caught him. On the blessed heart of the Virgin Mary, he had to get away! Travelling by night he had removed himself from battles many leagues distant into territories that had not yet heard of his escape and flight. The authorities who thought they were authorities were just self-styed murderers after his blood. They let rally wanted his head on a stake to parade through the streets of London and then impale on a spike at the portcullis of the Tower of London. He would not allow that to happen. Never! Oh, the fear! He was so very nearly caught a few days before because the traitorous farmer wanted the reward from the men with iron helmets. He really had to flee with his special advisor and companion.

I seem to remember something about him being dressed as a woman, as a disguise when he arrived at Marie’s home. Wigs were so common and in vogue that knowing whether a woman was actually a woman was really hard to discover in a polite manner and the men dressed like Robin of Loxley: men in tights. How peculiar. The partisans and the partials. The puritans really wen to town in those days and destroyed even the religious monuments and buildings like the modern Islamic State of Iraq and Syria are doing at this time in 2015.  Holy cow. Religious extremism is not new! The British were doing it before the Muslims! And we have the cheek to call them terrorists! Our puritans were exactly the same kind of her endows bastards as the modern jihadis are. The killed folk in the name of God. The God who so lobed the world he sent his son to die for us that we might not perish but have everlasting life… if we wanted it. Jesus! We were bastards, weren’t we? Damn ed puritans were causing a huge shift in global politics and even changed the course of events that would never change anyway. They tried to stop this mystery man from escaping and failed.

Marie invited the man and his lady companion into the warmth of her humble abode and set down a bit of food. Some bread and a bit of rabbit stew. It was the first bit of hot food the had eaten in many days and it was well received. After their supper they settled down to have a chat about the state of the country and how the hunt was going for the escapee. Marie knew that the roundheads wee looking for somebody important but she had sympathy for the man. He was a good man and the parliamentarians had no business trying to kill him. This news really encouraged crown prince Charles to reveal his true identity. Yes, he was the Bonnie Prince Charlie. So fond was Marie of the royals that she hid him in her house for a few hours while she went to fix a boat for him as he requested. He had explained that he needed to get to France beyond the reach of the roundheads. Who the hell decided to call them roundheads anyway? While Marie was away the prince rested fitfully on her bed. His royal escorts kept weary watch out in the darkness. Eventually Marie returned. She had fixed a ride on her friendly baker’s boat (I’m making up the baker bit, but it sounds good). It was a rowing boat that could secret them away over the channel but they had to hurry… shh! What was that? The whispers were almost imperceptible to each other as they all snuck out. Marie quickly chased the prince to an old oak Tree and hid him in its branches high above the ground then ran quietly and quickly to her house. As she walked in there was a gang of impetuous men demanding to know where her husband was! He is dead! They knew she had had visitors but who had told these clowns! Fuck!

There was no evidence that anyone except her had been in the house and even her bed was unmade because somebody had been sleeping in it. It was obvious. She was alone. The grumpy men left her after many impolite questions and threats of violence. One had the cheek to proposition her against her will but the captain ordered them all out. There was nobody here and time was short. The Scottish prince was to be found fast. Or heads would roll…

The Power of One. Marie had changed history for England, Wales, Scotland,France and Ireland in a few hours on her own. The letter F. Now the game was afoot. She rushed over to the oak Tree after the men had been gone a long time and called the Bonny Prince out of the tree. They made their way down to the shore and just before the light of early dawn, they handed her a gift from the prince: a solid gold pocket watch of finest design and encrusted with a few gems as a farewell gift for her assistance and fortitude. The gracious royal embarked on his journey to France and they never met again. Marie treasured her gift for the rest of her life. She passed it on to her children who delivered the watch to their children and so on for 4 or 5 generations then it is believed that some thieving bastard stole it from their posessions. Highwaymen were common in those days so until that particular watch is recovered, we may never know it’s full history and that is if it even exists anymore. So much gold was melted down form old gold and heirlooms between 2006 and 2015 that it may have been destroyed by some unsuspecting ignoramus. Or maybe the legend of its heritage survives in some family history somewhere else that an odd pocket watch that once belonged to King Charles is in their collection…

It would take the wealth of an aristocratic Lord to discover the truth. I don’t know much about English history, but I do know that marie existed and the she helped the Scottish prince escape certain death. That same prince later raised an entire army and invaded England two or three years later and took the throne of England as was his royal right and bound the future of Scotland with the history of England for many hundreds of years to come. That is how my ancestor made Scotland subject to the rule of Westminster today. In a little over a month’s time we vote for the next prime minister, and the fact that the gold pocket watch is still missing really irritates me. The Power of One.

The Power of One

You see it is all about the power of one. Oneself is the resin that history is made. It only takes one person to make one decision to change all of history for all time. One.  That’s all.like the disgustingly naughty letter F. There are many works and words in the English language but none so offensive or dirty as the letter F. One letter. When said with other letters, the D has far less power to offend. Even the letter L has less offence than the D. When we write a word it ought it have a simple direct and comprehensive meningitis in itself. No. The letter just refuses to be normal. It even wants to be proud by standing above the line and height of all but capital letters. Only Versals are greater in stature, but the F is just rude. Of course you may be puzzled with this discourse on the simple letter and wonder what the hell it has to do with the power of one. I give you full permission to wonder. I also present you with a duck. What a lovely animal. It waddles and is so inoffensive and even tasty when roasted but not so with fuck. There it is. The f word. If I said I wanted to duck off for a minute you’d not be bothered and agree… change that d to an f and it’s just coarse and vulgar and some french idiot decided that Saxon English was a poor excuse for a language. Fuck is English. Very old English. Older than my family history old in of English. The German fich is so much more inoffensive yet even sublime but the meaning and placement of the letter F is just absurdly rude. Number six. “F” For fail. Fk in digital conversations too via radio waves and the pervasive parental admonishment not to use the word. The Power of One. One word. It is all of the parts of speech in a single word. It is verb, noun, adjective, expletive; future, present and past tense-able it is procreative and destructive. It is constructive and destructive. It is addictive and extremely well used. It is one word that is a cliché and yet not. It jumps out of your vocabulary like a vulgar swan. The Power of One.

The French idiot who changed English language did not give fuck a chance to become socially acceptable. As much as I don’t like using it and cringe at the thought of using it as an example, it is definitive. The definition of self-aggrandising filthy despicable banal words used since time began. Oh, so you don’t believe me about it? Fine, which do you prefer: pig or pork, fuck or fig? They are exactly the same thing with distinctly different approaches to convey the identical meaning. The power of one. One choice does not leave the avenues of decision open. It closes them. Forever.

Success is the journey to achieving each of your goals. Goals are the markers on your journey to achieving your dreams. Dreams are your ideas of what your ideal life should be. It is the domain of dreamers who achieve their goals that are considered successful and it is the unimaginatively stupid who decide that success is a destination to arrive at because they don’t have the faintest idea of the Power of One. Duck. Fuck. You ought to understand by now. It’s as clear as day. Duck off. Duck it. Take him for a duck. But you can never get ducked. You must be quacks to duck the real meaning of one decision. The French idiot won out in the end. Now it is officially rude to say fuck in polite circles but they themself say it rather politely and with great relish and pomp. It sounds as if it belongs in their speeches. It doesn’t even sound coarse or vulgar because the polite way to use the f letter is in a nonchalant and underhanded almost casual “forgotten that it existed” kind of way.

Like the day my grand uncle won the Victoria Cross. I’m sure he said it. He must have. All that breeding and bravado means he knew what it easy but he knew how to use it. What in the world do you say when you are standing with your horse’s reins in your hand, an 18 pounder cannon behind your horse and then for God’s sake! We’ve run out of ammunition! Damn it all to hell. What am I to do without ammunition? We are sitting ducks with  three machine gun nests and a cannon with empty guns. Fuck it! We’re dead. Charge! And so he jumped on his horse and dragged the cannon along and pretended to snipe at the enemy, on a galloping horse with a gun that had not a single round of ammunition. Over open sights he aimed and shot nothing at the enemy. It’s incredibly difficult to shoot accurately from horseback and hit your mark, but temporary leuiteneant Robert Vaughan Gorle did. He killed the German line with nothing and scared the shit out of them so much that the first nest surrendered and then without thinking of safety, turned their own machine gun on the other nest and fired at them. Upon realising that the British had taken the first gun and was firing over open sights from the hip at them, the second nest of Germans shat themselves too. They were firing real bullets at them. There were no pretend deaths in the Great War. They fucking died. Permanently. Rob’s volley distracted the enemy enough that the English realised what was happening and all of them jumped up and ran towards the next forward point of safety in support of the Lieutenant. Good old blighty! Then horror of horrors he jumped up when the gun jammed and ran over to the next nest and took that gun and ripped off a load at the third nest of Germans! Horse, pistol, canon and not a single round of British ammunition left, broke the back of the enemy at Ledegham in Belgium. 1918. 1st of October. He was pissed off. He decided that if he was going to die, fuck it, he’d do it gloriously! Not quite the way my beloved grandmother told me, but most likely the way he thought to himself, our dear uncle Rob…

He’d be proud if he were alive today to see his famous medal in the Imperial War Museum today. This very day. He’d also be extremely pissed off if he knew some filthy fucker had stolen the damn thing from his sister! If he broke the will of the Germans without ammunition in a real war, what in the blazes would he be like in peacetime about this!?  (Yes, apparently and interobang is actually considered officially as a mark of punctuation as a singly expressed idea. No I don’t care. It fits there quite well, thank you very much for offering. Time to duck off.

The Power of One. The greatest power known to man is his ability to decide and stick to his guns. Like the letter F, it makes history. Big history. One man. One decision. Alone.