Madeleine is Sleeping

-- illustration stolen from Ben Fairhall's blog , current post of August 26, 2007

Today -- in a "shocking twist" that only shocks the Monkeys, Kate McCann was named a suspect.

Did we mention last time the whole West Witch thing?

Hm. Ho-kay.

OK, then. Brief excursion aboard the Weirdmobile.

[P.S. the McCanns subsequently were released by Portuguese police and they returned to Britain. However, the following post is still relevant for 'synchros' and as Part III of the McCann Trinity]

. . . sorry . . . couldn't resist . . .

By CARA RUBINSKY, Associated Press Writer

Fri Sep 7, 5:55 PM ET

HARTFORD, Conn. - Author Madeleine L'Engle, whose novel "A Wrinkle in Time" has captivated generations of schoolchildren and adults since the 1960s, has died, her publicist said Friday. She was 88. L'Engle died Thursday at a nursing home in Litchfield, said Jennifer Doerr, publicity manager for publisher Farrar, Straus and Giroux.

The Newbery Medal winner wrote more than 60 books, including fantasies, poetry and memoirs, often highlighting spiritual themes and her Christian faith.

Shhh. Madeleine is sleeping.

A Wrinkle in Time is L'Engle's classic children's/adult crossover mega-hit. From the A.P. report's synopsis:

"Wrinkle" tells the story of adolescent Meg Murry, her genius little brother Charles Wallace, and their battle against evil as they search across the universe for their missing father, a scientist.

The brother and sister, helped by a young neighbor, Calvin, and some supernatural spirits, must pass through a time travel corridor (the "wrinkle in time") and overcome the ruling powers on a planet with a totalitarian government reminiscent of George Orwell's "1984."

Hm. Missing Father. Orwellian/Totalitarian government under control of ruling Powers. An M.M. protagonist/heroine. Written by L'Engle.

Ya think?

Not having investigated the McCann thing originally, I was unaware of 2002 allegations (revelations?) about sexual abuse at Lisbon's Casa Pia Orphanage involving major Portuguese officials and, supposedly, some of Portugal's "elite." (Reminiscent, of course, of yesterday's Black Whole post mentioning the Portuguese connection to Vallejo, California, and the Good Templars Orphanage in Vallejo.

Fairhall goes into great detail concerning the overt occult aspects of the "abduction."

In particular, his July post about J.K. Rowling's involvement in Maddymania explodes into meaning with the death of L'Engle, 'Angel Madeleine'.

True to form, the A.P. obit above on L'Engle includes:

L'Engle told Newsweek in 2006 that she had read one Potter book and, "It's a nice story but there's nothing underneath it. I don't want to be bothered with stuff where there's nothing underneath."

L'Engle was (is!) a Christian, and thus a follower and servant of Christ -- not of the occult, of power, or anything else.

Fairhall's comparison of Madeleine McCann's "split iris" with the logo of the Child Exploitation and Online Protection center is illustrative. He calls it an All-Seeing-Eye. Referring to her daughter's iris as a possible identifying mark, Mrs. McCann said, "We want to make the most of it, because we know her hair could potentially be cut or dyed."

In this post, Fairhall discusses Gerry McCann's "extraordinary experience" inside a Portuguese Catholic Church which inspired him to launch the global campaign. Fairhall connects the experience to P.K. Dick's VALIS encounter, and closes the post with this caption and image.

The Madeleine (Magdalene) and the Royal Arch (of Masonry). Photograph taken June 1, 2007.

VALIS, published in 1981, features in my notes to Qim Tunes, and involves a schizophrenic man's discovery of a modern Messiah -- a two-year-old omniscient girl named Sophia. All very neo-gnostic, long before Dan Brown.

Speaking of schizos and rushed transitions, fans of this blog's Manson/Ragnarok posts: melting polar ice is transforming the Northwest Passage from fable to reality.

Related reality: perhaps the major contributor to greenhouse gases/global warming is cow farts.

Yup. Moo poots.

In fact, biologist James Lovelock (of 'Gaia' fame) discussed this very fact many years ago.

It takes tremendous land-usage (and resulting degradation and pollution) to feed bovines. Beef-and-milk-production is massively wasteful.

It's our infantile appetites and demands, as usual. Nothing more, really. It's more important that we have our marbled beef and hamburgers than the planet (and we) survive. Plus the cowfarts destroy atmospheric layers.

Business. As usual.

But back to the horror at hand. One at a time, eh?

The 1961 (apparent) visions at Garabandal were the first Mary sightings and declarations covered extensively, and closely, by modern technology. Unlike the events at Fatima, the Catholic Church hasn't 'endorsed' Garabandal.

[1961 was a rare numerically reversible year, and therefore of extreme importance in sympathtic/antithetic magick, as are alphabetic palindromes. 1961 also witnessed little dynamo's first, and only, visit to Disneyland]

As the prior post, 'My Leanness, My Leanness' shows, the Church's hesitation (or refutation, though unstated -- no need to alienate gazillions of the Faithful for who Catholocism is, essentially, Mary) to authenticate Garabandal might well trace to the Masonic Hand over the Portuguese government in the early 1960s. This influence could well continue currently, covers of "democracy" notwithstanding.

"The Pines" above Garabandal

Masons, Ma's-Sons, the Dionysian Artificers, the arkwrights, etc., construct reality as well as buildings. They specialize in techno-magico-libidic demonstrations, vampiric tableaux.

Want a pre-1960s tie-in to gnosticsm/templarism/goddess-worship in Portugal? Try Henry the Navigator and the ahem Order of Christ.

Conchita's description of the encounter with the 'angel' -- and the involvement of the other girls -- has sexual overtones, following a primal- Genesis storyline full of familiar characters and plots. Pubescent girls playing in the school garden, 'sinful' apple picking, thunder, wandering sheep, stoning of the devil, the ecstatic/hyper-excited state during encounter, the post-contact crying, etc.

By two weeks, the 'Michaeline encounter' preceded the girls' trancelike 'visitations' with Mary (also announced by the angel), and occurred in a kind of rocky ravine leading to a hill called The Pines, topped with nine pine trees.

As this site suggests, the way from Garabandal, through the narrow, winding ravine, and finally up the slope to the hilltop, analogs the Catholic Crucifixion Stations. Here's a quote from the Sixth Station:

St. Irenaeus wrote a meditation which reads "Eve, by her disobedience, tied the knot of disgrace for the human race; to the contrary, Mary, by her obedience, undid it.

Central to Garabandal was the propheised "global miracle" or "permanent sign" which Conchita's claims will manifest at The Pines for all . . . teevee included! This is The Warning after which, if unheeded, will come The Punishment, also global in scope.

Was Garabandal an elaborate, hi-tech holoscam engineered by Portuguese and allied Masons, whose purposes and results were occult and telluric, running far beneath the apparent surface of piety and goodwill?

Or was it a response by authentic parties to masonry in Portugal and elsewhere, and to the re-arising of the Sea-Monster, the ancient Threat of the Deep, depicted biblically as collusion between Eve and the Serpent?

Dunno yet. Evidence ain't all in. Speculative.

But the war for this planet, for its souls -- that is neither speculative, nor new.

And it's heating up.

Inquiring minds search the heavens.

Meanwhile Madeleine sleeps, yea, She's just a baby waiting/for her tomorrow. [John Kay]

The world, in many ways, is just a sad, lost little girl. Not by the standards of individual human beings, of course. By the standards of planets.

And, despite our scientific acumen . . . do we really know what a planet is?

Does the planet?

This post's opening image is from Madeleine is Sleeping, a 2004 novel by Sarah Shun-Lien Bynum. Conveniently, this free Chapter One reports, in part:

MADELEINE STIRS in her sleep.

hush

WHEN MADELEINE SLEEPS, Mother says, the cows give double their milk. Pansies sprout up between the floorboards. Your father loves me, but I remain slender and childless. I can hear the tumult of pears and apples falling from the trees like rain.

Smooth your sister's coverlet. Arrange her hair on the pillowcase. Be silent as saints. We do not wish to wake her.

madeleine dreams

ON DARK MORNINGS, when the church still lay in shadow, Saint Michel looked absent-minded, forlorn, penned in by the lead panes that outlined the sad slope of his jaw. She thought him by far the most heartbreaking of the saints, and occasionally yearned to squeeze the long, waxen fingers that were pressed together so impassibly as they pointed towards heaven.

He had been a prince once, whose appetite was such that he could never quite keep his mouth closed. In defiance of medieval conventions, even his portraits attest to his hunger: his lips are always ajar, teeth wetly bared, as if about to bite into his tenants' capons or cheeses or one of their firm daughters. In his castle's feasting hall, he liked to stage elaborate tableaux vivants, resurrecting the classical friezes he had seen in his travels, himself always cast as the hero or the young god, a bevy of peasant girls enlisted as dryads, pheasants and rank trout imitating eagles and dolphins.

Imagine the depravity, the priest whispers: women with nipples as large and purple as plums, birds molting, dead fish suspended from the rafters, and rising in the midst of them all, the achingly glorious Michel, oblivious to the chaos surrounding him. His vanity was unmatched!

penitence

AND THEN a PLAGUE STRUCK, a drought descended, and Michel found God.

While outside his castle walls the pestilence raged, Michel was struck by the face of the crucified Lord, preserved in a primitive icon that hung beneath the stairs. His fair face had been obliterated by tears and blood; His perfect body was desiccated and dotted with flies. Wracked by self-reproach, the prince vowed to destroy his own beauty; he surrendered himself and his lands to the monastery at Rievaulx, where he spent the rest of his days inflicting torture upon himself.

He suffered through flagellations, hair shirts, and fasting while the abbot meticulously chronicled his decline: Prince Michel can barely leave his pallet; his flesh has fallen away; repeated flaying has reopened and infected old wounds; his sackcloth has spawned monstrous lesions about his groin. It was as Michel wished. When he finally expired, his face was contorted in anguish, his loveliness effaced by tears and blood. The abbot washed the ravaged body and laid it upon its bier, but by morning the saint had been miraculously restored to perfection, his body whole and sound, his face flawless and somber. This is the Saint Michel depicted in the cathedral window. Even the devout find it difficult to remember the suffering he endured.

I should have loved him more, she thought, if he had remained mutilated.