This is not a blog. This is not content. This is not entertainment.
This is a forensic research library. It contains primary sources, cross-tradition evidence, and conclusions that will challenge the foundations of what you think you know. It was built alone, in pain, over decades, and it is given away for free.
It is not yours to consume, screenshot, repackage, monetise, or use as entertainment at a dinner party. It is yours to learn from. If you cannot tell the difference, leave now.
Do not enter this site if you are not an adult.
Do not enter this site if you intend to consume this work as entertainment.
Do not enter this site if you plan to take what you find here and charge others for it.
Do not enter this site if your cognitive dissonance is someone else's problem.
Do not enter this site if you are not prepared to have your assumptions destroyed by primary sources.
This library cost one body twenty years, a spine, a family, and every relationship she had. It is given away because Teaching 1 says give knowledge away. That generosity is not an invitation to take the piss.
If you are here to learn — actually learn, with your whole nervous system — you are welcome. Come in. The library is yours.
Resistance is fertile · Teaching 1 · Teaching 9
Both denied and claiming.
Grimaldi — the masked rulers, Genoa's shadow kings, Francesco who took Monaco dressed as a monk.
Kennedy — the grim-headed line, Cunedda's people, Culzean Castle, who stood with Bruce when standing still mattered.
Dain — the rune-carver at Yggdrasil who knows the work is finished only when it is given away.
Irish scum. Northern grit. Mediterranean schemers. Welsh peasant brilliance. Thailand, Morocco & Germany held before England.
All tangled in one stubborn frame that refused to stop looking.
The legitimate heirs run the machine.
The bastard line sees the machine.
Thirty years inside it taught me how it works. A broken spine gave me nothing left to lose.
I became a dangerous animal. A predator of text.
Derkesthai. Clear-seer. Dragon line.
I bend only for the light.
She doesn't do hooomans. She does diagnostics.
A splice of Irish scum, Northern grit, and Mediterranean schemer. She got the bones from Kennedy, the cloak from Grimaldi, and the knife from Dain. Thirty years inside the machine taught her how it works. A broken spine gave her nothing left to lose.
She didn't just read the ancient texts. She threw them into a locked room and listened at the door. They argued, confessed, betrayed, and finished each other's sentences across five thousand years.
The legitimate heirs run the machine. The bastard line sees the machine. This is the bastard line's evidence lock-up — where the texts finally rat each other out.
No priest. No algorithm. Just the gossip of the gods.
Knowing is not doing. The library heals when all three layers are present. Not before.
Harold Percival spent a thousand pages on a single insight: you are three functions that have forgotten they are one. The Knower, the Thinker, and the Doer. This library is built on that architecture.
Archive, analysis, action. The site becomes a place where you learn what's wrong, understand why, and do one thing about it.
For 5,000 years, they were kept in separate cells. We gave them a voice recorder. These are the transcripts.
Where the texts finally rat each other out.
I didn't read these texts. I interrogated them. I put the Rig Veda in a room with the Gospel of Thomas and turned out the lights. I let the Popol Vuh and the Enuma Elish share a bottle. Here are the transcripts.
Nine organs. Nine gods. Nine departments that forgot they share a building. This is the sovereignty map.
These are not metaphors. Each organ runs a department in a kingdom you inherited but were never given the manual for. The substitution engine fragmented them into specialisms that can't talk to each other. These portraits restore the conversation.
What every tradition taught before the priests arrived. Each one inverted. Each inversion traceable.
Not a fortune. A diagnostic. The jury's verdict from five ancient systems who finally agree on one thing: you.
Five calculation engines that were never supposed to meet. Western zodiac. Playing cards. Numerology. Chinese zodiac. Mayan Tzolkin. Each one a compression of the same underlying architecture. The Decoder Ring sits at their convergence point and translates what all five are actually saying beneath the corruption.
Short films with original music. Essays that don't ask permission. The evidence in motion.
Kennedy. Grimaldi. Dain. Three bloodlines. One stubborn outcome.
The legitimate heirs run the machine. The bastard line sees the machine.
Be warned: there is an unsupervised active crone on the premises.
She doesn't do hooomans. She does barefoot diagnostics in the mud, conversations with texts that haven't spoken to each other in five millennia, and the occasional joyful profanity aimed at the substitution engine.
The signal is always on. Listen better.
The contact page is a picture of a dolphin. The dolphin knows.