A few years ago, a friend said “You can’t believe ‘mainstream media.’ They are owned, their message controlled.”

I considered the flawless graphics. The seamless edits. The impeccable delivery, coming from major news outlets. No; I didn’t believe what my friend said.

[ Having been lured, by at least two men – each with exquisite taste in both clothes and furnishings – and, who’d turned out to be sociopathic, somehow, I never even bothered to correlate, or take a lesson then, either – false equivalencies, notwithstanding. ]

By contrast, what my friend offered as a source of trustworthy information was kitschy. Glitzy. Overdone, and sensationalist. Surely, such a presentation had to be suspect, its content not worthy of a second look. So, I didn’t look. I didn’t believe it.

But, there were publications, my friend persisted, by first hand observers with credentials. I viewed the books, read the authors names – authors unfamiliar to me, their book jackets embossed with outsized, gaudy fonts. Shades of Scientology. More delusional grandeur. I passed; again, I didn’t believe it.

Still, my friend would not be moved. There were videos.

Wearily, I turned to see: more of same. Punchy anthems. Animated, attention grabbing cartoons, peppered with inflammatory symbology. From bad to worse, I wasn’t just offput; this was repugnant. Not only did I not believe it, I. would. not.

Fast forward. Beyond all the sleek, sophisticated, state of the art imaging – and, equally subliminal messaging.

[ Decades earlier, I’d trained in graphic design and product promotion. Surely, I knew the strategies, the tactics, the money trail following that which had earned top commercial attention? Again, a major gap, an absence of neurotransmission critical to direct correlation. ]

Something about a virus, coming across from countries far away and threatening everything I called real and sustainable. Matters of literal life and death became the order of the day and, with these, a paradigm shift in, yes; belief.

Today, I am living proof that what one recognizes as familiar, what is trusted because it presents convincingly, and what is ubiquitous by its very repeating appearance can be, in fact, a manipulation so insidious as to be capable of capturing even those in possession of respectably high intelligence. The only prerequisite is susceptibility. To being primed, if you will. Groomed.

[ Is one rendered susceptible? If so, by what means? By first being starved, until hungry and, parched, ready to absorb anything? ]

This evening, I viewed a news feature story on, yes; a major news outlet. This time, I sat from a very different perspective. The narrator was portraying an animal product about which I was very familiar. But, the product was being systematically maligned, point by point until, climaxing with a close up of a horse’s head, it was summarily dismissed and rejected.

The only problem with this story was that I was living proof of its contradiction. I had been consuming a prescribed form of the illustrated product – formulated for humans – for several months and, in fact, had never felt better. My metabolism had been jump started; fat had melted off; my digestion had improved, my skin was clear, and the lower back pain greeting me after sleep was as gone as the sugar cravings which had plagued me for years.

Yet, this product was being described as having poisoned people. To the unsuspecting (yes: susceptible) listener, the word “poison” would be a powerful deterrent, possibly even affect-ively arousing so much fear so as to block any discernment.

Discernment. Discernment would have permitted noticing that the pharmaceutical grade of the product, prescribed for actual humans, was being de-emphasized – though such very much did exist. Discernment would have revealed that only two alleged cases of adverse effect had even been cited, and that anonymously (masked by, yes; sleek, sophisticated camera work and the edgiest of computer graphics), almost to the level of heresay. Taken in totality, the story was an obvious slam, a near slander of a medication which had won the Nobel Prize many decades before, used continuously thereafter across the globe against life threatening disease.

Yes. Disease. And, now, mountains of real world data (the kind involving actual people, en masse, not controlled comparison trials which allow equal numbers, part of a placebo group, to risk losing their lives at the hand of a sugar pill) for many, many months had proved that lives were being saved from the pervasive, current threat using this same wonderful substance in the same kind of repurposed form that so many other similar preparations had been found to effectively function for years.

Suddenly, I’d come face to face with a tectonic shift. That shift was happening in my own mind. I was perceiving that which was being put before me with an entirely new perspective. I’d like to call this enlightenment, were it not for the shadow cast. That shadow is hereby indicted, responsible for the gross misleading of incredibly large numbers of people, huddled masses waiting to be fed, accepting as nourishment only poison.

Believe it.

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© 8/28/2021 Ruth Ann Scanzillo. All rights those of the author, however unknown by any reader, whose story it is and whose name appears above this line. You will respect original material.

littlebarefeetblog.com

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Hello, Readers.

According to the WordPress.com stats, my blog hasn’t had any hits since August 20th. An internal bug rendered my Privately set posts vulnerable, and I can’t even know if the site itself has closed all traffic to my pieces.

So, it’s been awhile since I’ve written anything. Too busy searching and viewing video testimonials, from scientists and doctors and other health authorities, trying to both maintain safe distance from threat and to forewarn those I love.

But, now, we have to confront another force.

I’ll call this The Travesty of Integrity.

An article popped up, today, at MSN’s Firefox set of recommended reads. The title appears in the attached graphic. Did I read the piece? Nope. Call it revulsion; not, at all, interested. Not interested in finding out how to get the job for which somebody else is more qualified.

Why?

To my mind, we have entered a new low in social responsibility. Disengenuity; false representation; masquerading. Call it what you will. People are not not only attempting to fake out potential employers, but actually ENCOURAGING the action?

This reminds me of a phase of early childhood development called “pretending.” Very young children learn to mimic roles they observe being played out around them. They “play doctor”, “teacher”……..”superhero”.

And, among children, this is considered by psychologists to be normal. Helps form identity, and identification with adult roles regarded as responsible or achievable.

NOW — individuals are being taught how to skip all the steps taken beyond that phase and actually seek a job interview, expecting to contribute equally alongside those who have spent the hours, days, weeks, months, and years becoming either fully credible authorities or skilled at a high level.

Do we WANT a society led by charlatans?

Will we survive, ruled by them?

Because, that is what will happen. This generation of unqualified pretenders may one day hold our very lives in their hands.

Mark that.

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© 8/22/2021 Ruth Ann Scanzillo. All rights those of the author, whose name appears above this line. Thank you for respecting original material.

littlebarefeetblog.com

God won’t be reading this.

He’s too busy watching over his chosen few.

You know the type. Always “blessed”. Always proclaiming their countless blessings, to the world, specifically on social media.

Invariably, such blessings only qualify if they can be held in the hand, like, okay, say, the handle to the double doors of a converted Southern plantation, or the reins of a willing horse.

Sometimes, natural disaster strikes. Theirs is the only house spared. Another burst of thanksgiving, to the God who cares about them the most.

Being bailed out after stupid decision making, like surviving food poisoning after refusing to wash bagged big agra lettuce or successfully pooping after 48 hours of bareback riding? These, while qualified, rarely get any airtime; one mustn’t embarrass the God of All Creation, lest He be miffed and withhold future cloudbursts.

Somebody who loved so many and deigned to love me, too, provided what I’ve concluded is the meaning of being blessed by a God who is no respecter of persons. That person was Mammy Sweet, and she was my grandmother.

Mammy stayed home. She didn’t own a car. She didn’t have a driver’s license. While she was still able, she walked to Sunday morning meeting – down the block, left, then down the short hill to the church we all called the assembly hall because, English and Plymouth Brethren, the real church was the body of Christ according to Scripture.

When she wasn’t dressed for Sunday all day, she’d be up with the sun to put on her support hose, sturdy shoes, a cotton apron over her cotton shift, and be about the house and garden. There were rows and rows of vegetables to plant, harvest, can, and eat; there were roses and peonies to feed the bees, a plum and pear tree, and countless perennials close growing both near the trees and through the rock gardens out front. In winter, there was bread to bake, and rugs to braid, and clothes to alter or sew from scratch.

After a full day in sunlight, rest was defined by the rocker, near the phone, where she regularly called the family or wrote letters or prayed.

In her world, blessing was defined in small moments, undeclared and unobserved by anyone, recognized in silent smiles as the sun set through the criss crossing silken curtains. I like to think that, because she bloomed where she was planted, living a life of worship and work, she was blessed with length of days. In turn, those days provided the blessing for all who knew her, for every hour of her 98 plus years on the earth.

It didn’t matter who else knew. Her God saw, and was well pleased.

She read the Word, and held it in her heart.

Chosen? Maybe.

Favored?

Only God knows.

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© 7/30/21 Ruth Ann Scanzillo. All rights those of the author, whose story it is, and whose name appears above this line. Be blessed, and know it. God isn’t just your Show And Tell story.

littlebarefeetblog.com