Guest Post: Ultima Thule by Mike Kay

For as long as there have been ships, men have sought to journey to the top of the world, and beyond.

 

The Arctic does not surrender its secrets; it only reveals them to the brave. The North Pole was not unquestioningly reached until the Norge Expedition crossed the white ice at the close of the first quarter of the 20^th century, via Airship. This expedition officially ended the age of exploration in the far North, and for most, has removed the Arctic from their thoughts and concerns. Yet the arctic remains as the essential and pivotal place for both a history left untold, and the closing chapters of the oil civilization.

It is fitting perhaps, that a civilization so obsessed with energy would be lead by its’ own fixation to the very starting point for this latest chapter of the human experiment. That which prefers to see itself as somehow solid, certain, and eternal finds its last gasp in the place where change and transformation are paramount. Shifting ice builds and destroys towering escarpments. Open water closes quickly, to open again in another place. Life here must deal with sudden irrevocable change, as much as it must rely upon an essential reserve to thrive. The only thing permanent in the Arctic, as Jules Verne confirmed in his classic “20,000 Leagues under the Sea”, is that it is the final resting place for technology gone mad.

The Rime builds fantastic sculpture, naked to a wind that cuts at 70 degrees below zeroe. Here is the home of the first scream, the primal first sound, first vibration to declare itself aware in the ancient polar night; the seed syllable. From this inception, to the modern proliferation of gigantic atmospheric heaters that bombard the sky above. Like HAARP, they hide behind cute acronyms, playing a reckless game in the high heavens, attempting to terraform the roof of the world. This will be their legacy, the last place on earth for a heedless civilization to extract its energy from a planet whose gifts they squandered.

The USA drank its oil dry to win the war it helped design-WW II. It burned the last of its reserves to build monuments to corruption in the deserts, drive metal boxes quickly across roads, and build an empire increasingly famous for its insanity and blind senility. Now it can only hydraulically fracture itself into toxic stupors, destroying its’ gift of pure ground water for the woke circus, which congratulates itself on the self destruction it ushers in, for one more week, one more month, as documented on the internet and TV. Russia now feeds the world, and increasingly, the USA, as she will for the next decade, after which the final reserves of oil upon this planet are exhausted, and the artificial fires burn themselves out, when the madly spinning wheels come off, and oil society grinds to a careening, screeching halt forever. A free will dictates free choice, yet there is neither in the oil society. The insanity and lies just grow louder and greater as the last seas of oil are burned in reptilian celebration of heedless heat.

Giant columns of methane bubble and roar from the Arctic’s’ broken ocean floor. Any craft foolish enough to crest those rolling waves sinks like a stone, for this water has lost its buoyancy. Plastics float in the currents, as all the toxins of the oil society gather in the ice, concentrated in the tissues of the life forms that call the top of the world their home. Unknown to most, there is a ring of volcanism around the arctic, active underwater volcanoes beneath the ice. There is a different fire powering the currents of transformation in the Arctic, unrelated to the demented phantasie of a dying society.

Here the Great Ice Bear prowls. Master of the far north, the right hand of the Creator is always the top predator, as William Blake explained to us centuries ago. Here it was where the race of the White Ones, the Aryans, descended from the stars. The true aliens have long been amongst mankind. They rode down the Rainbow Bridge that today we call the Northern Lights, the very last of the races of man. Great secrets lie here, truth both forgotten and unrevealed, yet we must focus upon this journey, for as this was the birthplace of the Aryans, as all who have inherited their blood are infused with the fire of return.

Thus Vainamoinen was tumbled by the sea, tested by the winds, cast upon the land, yet he still searches for his bride. Thus the spirits of this land are often hostile and uncooperative, to the last race of man. The role and resort of the final man is not to be found solely within this earthly enclosure. Thus Maria returned to the stars that launched her incomprehensible spirit, and peerless ethereal beauty.

The journey of the Aryans was to leave the northern lands, although some indeed stayed. Those Aryans moved south, out of the Arctic, to interact and interbreed with the daughters of mankind. Mankind, like all noble truth is threefold at its core, thus the three roots of incarnation; from the rock came the first branch, hardy and strong, and from the soils the second, dark and fecund, but the last to arrive are the Trees, stretching to the sky.

“I met her in

A forest glade,

Where star beings

Grew like Trees…’

-Hawkwind

It was the Tree that opened the traverse of the oceans, and made possible the dream of return. From the Trees was born the mystery of the Runes, after Ogham, which was the script of the Trees. Mankind plods along now, in a dull television pretend world where nothing is real, believing things repeated and told, yet in the far north lies the emergence, they mystery of beginnings lost to the memory of mankind. This lost memory still echoes through the corners of the mind, as those who carry the inheritance watch the Northern Lights play. A piece of that Aryan essence has disseminated throughout mankind. Some carry the burden in great amounts, the Elf burned ones. In others it is slim to none, yet for those within whom the ancestral light glows, the rhythmic pulse of the Northern Lights carries that memory of a bridge to home, the stars.

The colours of the north remain strong in the Aryan psyche, a harmony of wave and pattern that convey unquestioned meanings. White remains the colour of purity, of essential godliness, a metaphor of light; blue, the colour of the deep, of mystery and endlessness and the sun’s dome. Green is the harbinger of life, of living vegetation, of the very leaves of the World Tree. These three colours make up the shades of incarnation in the north.

It is from the top of the world that the great magnetic umbilical extends to the glory of the sun, where fire begins to condense into matter, and the Earth delights in her body electric, flowing in currents across her sphere, currents that shape the land, the flow of water, the migration of birds, the deep subterranean currents that bring the scintillating dance of life. Life here holds the secrets of successful adaptation. During the long dark polar night the eyes of the Reindeer turn blue, better to see in the despair of light, and in the long day they transform to an obsidian dark, the better to withstand the glare of sun upon ice.  Nuclear war is staved off here. The demented dreams of the great Archon push the deep mind of man toward fission horror, the final flash, and the suffering and pain. Empire’s lackeys have long lusted after missiles crossing the poles. Yet the Old Gods have called upon the Great Artificers, upon their intelligence, wisdom, and sight. Still today this genius holds the Archontic at bay.

Stargate is what the USA’s military called their plan to tap the abilities of mystics and seers, and force this into actionable intelligence. The military used a heavy hand, but the true Stargate lies far above the white glistening ice, to where great animals move and tread, magnificent beasts that prowl the etheric, all this unknown to modern man, who prefers to think of himself as the purveyor of his destiny, the chooser of acts, the thinker of his own thoughts, like a child who declares the moon is made of cheese.

Modern man does not understand why magnetic north, upon which so much he does depend, has become a Nomad. He contents himself with terrors, while blindly going about his tasks. His great fear is of a reversal of Her electric polarity, and the immense deluge this would usher in. Yet at the same time he scares himself silly, he does everything in his power to encourage Nomad to roam, and nothing at all to welcome him home.

The far north is a place of few comforts. The stark mountains, with jagged, snow covered peaks spread unapologetically below a crystal blue sky. Lichen strewn rock, and permafrost, speak of a life that is harsh, tough, and directly connected to the sea. The mystery of the trees opened the mystery of the seas, and while Aegir and Ran continue to claim their share, the call to the sea is too strong to resist. Like the call of the return, it is fraught with challenge, yet deep in the blood pulses the ethers and the seas, and the Aryan is susceptible to both.

It is now from the sea that the last oil rises, far in the north, forgotten by most. The people who mine it are Russian and Norwegian, but Norway is eclipsed, and only Russia can call upon what is left, for the last stage of the oil society. Russia is of course named after the Rus, the first princes of the Motherland. The Rus were the Norsemen, who brought peace to the tribes, law and order, established royalty, and founded Kiev on the Dnieper River, the capital of the modern day Ukraine.

The Trees that made possible the construction of ships, also made the rivers the great highways of the ancestors, traversed by specially built shallow draft vessels. To circumnavigate the falls and rapids, carts were fashioned to carry the ships and gear overland, and thus the portage was born. Yes, portage is a word of French derivation, dating back the new world, the Voyageurs, and the fur trade, yet this practice has its roots in the Aryan migration, and the Rus who followed them.

Rus translates to red, ruddy, as in the Aryan complexion, when exposed to the elements. Kiev was but one of many settlements founded to expand into full city status. Rurik, the architect of Viking guerilla war against genocidal Christian Europe, was in Russia, famous as the prince who quelled the internecine warfare of the tribes, and is widely revered as the spiritual founder of the Rus dynasty. His legacy lives in the history of the Kievan Rus, and Kiev, the most enduring monument to Rus leadership, is now the capital city of the Ukraine.

Thanks to a well oiled propaganda machine, it is currently frowned upon to mention Russia and the Ukraine in the same breath. However, as we discover with only a brief glimpse into history, the division between Russia and the Ukraine is primarily political and linguistic. This rift is, in the long history of Russia, one caused by the excesses of Bolshevism, the murder and relocation campaigns of Stalin, and not in any small sense, the money, ideology, and hatreds that obsess the leaders of the west.

Russia has always been the offspring of the arctic: The resting place for the oldest known European artifacts, the mysterious first home of the ancient Aryans, mother of Europe, and now, as in the beginning, central to this last chapter of the drama played out by humankind. Is the hatred of Russia by the collective forces of the west actually a deep terror at having the ultimate source of western civilization revealed as Russian? How many false narratives will this recognition of origins deflate? How many edifices will topple with the realization that Russia is the birthplace of everything western? The world is a place where irony is indeed, an eternal principle.

Doubtless by now, the casual reader wonders exactly what significance the Aryans and the Arctic has to them. After all, mankind is largely adulterated, with even Europeans claiming widely diverse origins. Most people don’t like snow.  The arctic, far from being a siren song, merely recounts to them a litany of unpleasantries. Of what possible purpose could it be to recall mankind’s last and latest race, the bridge to the stars, and beyond?

The purpose lies in the original motive for the Aryan descent to the earth; a purpose no less significant now, with the twilight of the modern world already knocking at the door. Perhaps it could be seen as a waveform, where the spiral back to the origin returns to a near exact place, yet further projected.  All activity thus must return to its origin, it is simply the pattern creation manifests within. Such an understanding coincides with what mankind has lost through adulteration, what it has willingly exchanged for a modern stupor.

Much has been said of soullessness of modern man, and much more could be said. From the Shamanic point of view, soul loss is directly related to the adoption of aberrant lifestyles, a severe disconnect from essential energies, the blindness, deafness and dumbness, a complete resistance to communications from the ancestors, terror and ignorance of the ghosts left behind. Yet from an even more essential point of view, mankind is lost due to a forsaking of the birthright of wild love.

The descent of the Aryans was to lead and uplift mankind, an act of true and endless love. Today, most of their ancient systems of knowledge, medicine, and mathematics lie forgotten, as foretold. Thus it is easy to obscure and distort original purpose. Still, the most honest measure for a loss of upward evolution lies in the fact that modern man has to be told what to dream, and what to love.

It is actually something impossible to overemphasize, the role of genuine wild love in the human being. First, because it is an act of surrender to that which is both greater and introduces unimagined possibilities, second because it is the only genuine motivation for a true human being. Now we can see why the structures of modern society are so consumed with feeding to their populace artificial notions of love. For it is, simply put, the bait and switch scam of all time.

Wild love is like an untamed river, which flows through varied terrain. It was not made by mankind, it was not ordered or defined according to the tenets of any politic, or any economy. Wild love chooses the human, and in this descent, changes the human forever. It is not a directive from the mind, or from essential function, it is a descent of the higher power. Such is extremely threatening to a society that exists to harvest the life blood of friend and foe alike. It is utterly beyond control, beyond understanding, and for this reason society hates wild love, and hates humankind. Thus, the TV is filled with images designed to distract from wild love, images that are fully acclimatized by the tendrils of an entity that always seeks to feed. Such is, in truth, the definition of an Archontic system.

Psychologists exist to stamp out the fires of wild love. Designers of torture, and commercials-but I repeat myself-psychologists are handsomely paid to remove the person from deep motivation, and to reinforce an ersatz love born of limitation and cynicism. All areas of society, especially the higher echelons, require thorough and complete renovation of what makes a person honestly function. Only the children are left, for a short time, to see life through honest eyes. Yet the societal complex is now coming for them too, its vast depraved insignificance seeking to alleviate its dross through the vicious harvesting of the innocent.

The domesticated man thus, like the new man of Marx, has no love. The willful forsaking of that loss of faculty, loss of control, loss of an assumed identity is too frightening to men of society who are completely given over to the fantasy it provides. Yet they have not killed wild love, they only killed the access within themselves. Wild love cannot be stopped or negated, except on a person by person basis, which is why Aldous Huxley sought corruption as the tool to control, even as Bertrand Russell called for a more severe authoritarianism. Those who cannot define, cannot alter, and cannot shape wild love should be praising its virtue, as a primal force in mankind, yet they can only run from it, and hold its secret away from those they lust to enslave.

Wild love is the light in the eyes of a child who sees their first flower. Wild love is the moment where all of creation makes sense, and the one who loves laughs. Wild love is the paradise in young lovers’ hearts, and wild love is the gift of understanding to those who feel the sting of the sea. Wild love is the virtue, and the savior of mankind, just as the artificial, transhuman mentality is the demise. Untamed, wild love just might be most essential for surviving the dying of the light.

For it well known that this world has seen many great acts of destruction, and it is understood that blasts of fire, and the towering waves have taken many a people into history, to be forever forgotten. American Indians refer to such times as the Earth Changes, and some such as Wallace Black Elk observed this world upon their brink. The Vedas state that at the end of each great age, a massive destruction visits the earth. Perhaps we can conceive of creation as a flash, a bright light that fades over time, before dropping into the silence of the vast dark, unremembered until it flashes again. As the light grows less strong, so the vitality of creation drains away like the sap in a wounded tree. Without any bridge to a greater understanding, humanity looses its higher articulation. Peace to them seems stupid, and love is but weakness, and what matters is what you can devour. Traditionally, such conditions of malice and insanity have been signs of the impending shift, and thus the Aryan gift returns upon the spiral to those who can embody its ways.

The dying of the light is a natural out breath, a sigh upon awareness’ door. It is the change of creation to the state of nonbeing, the very essence, the core. It is encoded into the very psyche of living things, a deep knowledge and the reason why so many surrender themselves to agendas of raw devastation, and to the extinction protocols now fully in place across the planet.

The ancient science bridged from the stars to this world, via the azure realm of the arctic. It is the science of survival, having passed through the outer dark, retaining vitality across vast distances, through the gossamer clouds of nebulae, intact in the radiation seas of the mightiest suns, sailing along the magnetic rivers of the cosmic highways that pass through space and time. This science is alive with the memory of the cosmos, reaching through the diffuse awareness of oblivion, to the luminescence that is the beyond.

The helmsman who leans upon his rudder arm steers his boat through the ocean of eternity. His awareness is alive with the profound manifestation of consciousness. He is the great sail that opens upon the winds of oblivion. He is the life force that unborn, does not die, as everything around him has died. He is sense without a center who conjures a centre to sail, as he journeys through the mystic of non existence, to make land fall on the shore of newly emanated light. He joins a world already in progress, carries a secret message ashore, from the previous light that only he dreams.