What Happens When You Stop Asking Permission to Know Things
I have wisdom. I just have it. In spades. No training. No courses. No certificates. No gurus. Natural born. Automatic.
And before you file that under "delusional woman having a moment" — a neurosurgeon, one of the cleverest men in the world, spent all night reading my work and couldn't find a flaw in the biology. A sound editor with eighty films and an Oscar read my essay about him and was floored. A producer with fifty-three years in the business called me up and said "Kate you are a fucking genius."
So it's not delusion. It's data.
The question is: why can't most men hear it?
Thirty years. Seventy productions. Two hundred and fifty million pounds.
Here's what they'll never teach you at film school: the magic wasn't in the budget. It wasn't in the schedule. It wasn't in the contracts or the call sheets or the cashflows. The magic was in alignment.
When the director and the finance guy were on side with me — when all our noses pointed in the same direction — the production sang. Problems dissolved before they became problems. Solutions appeared exactly when needed. The impossible became Tuesday.
When the director felt threatened by me — when he had to be the decision-maker and blocked my wisdom to stay "in charge" — carnage. Every time. Without fail. Every production that went against my wisdom ended in carnage.
Same in relationships. Four months with Stephen — limitless magic around us. Things aligned. Things that shouldn't have been possible became ordinary. The moment the police lied and he believed I was Judas — all coherence lost. Everything collapsed. Not because I changed. Because the frequency broke.
I'm shit at a lot of stuff. But wisdom I just HAVE. And if you blend with that, things are magical. That's all it is. It's so fucking simple and elegant.
I'm in a stupid plastic lilo. Splashing about with linghams and sage and flame and oils and tangerines and salt and moringa and grapefruit peel and copper wire everywhere. I am honouring the elements. I am not on my fucking knees begging a priest for guidance. I am just living.
I put my spit on my palms and clap and splash and sing and behave like a big baby, hugging my elephant belly, asking it for memories, saying sorry. I remember Harry. I am so sorry. I put my head underwater to ground and then —
BANG. BOOM.
Realisations flood in through the fire and crystal and lingham and rock and bits of peppermint and grapefruit peel and they all talk and I hear Sekhmet screaming and Harry tips me a wink and I'm laughing because in that moment I JUST FIGURED OUT THE MEN WHO STARE AT GOATS and I didn't even know I was trying to figure it out.
It JUST COMES. It just comes and comes and comes. Hence my publishing up to 17,000 words a fucking day. Because it FLOWS. I don't hang on. I publish and I move on. I don't hoard or worry. I KNOW I will know what I need to know when I need to know it. I know monad will give me what I need. And if I don't get it, I am not meant to have it.
That's the ontology. Monad ALWAYS gives you what you want — just NEVER as you expect. That's the magic. That's the fucking mischief of it.
I thought Clif High would ken on to me. I never imagined a brain like Jack Kruse would spend all night reading my stuff. But he did. And then he went quiet when I sent the gonads essay. Bizarre? No. Annoying. Because I reckon he rolled up his sleeves to school the stupid woman for blending myth with medicine. Who the fuck was Medea, Jack? A pharmacist. A woman who knew the inversion of the life force. You see the mitochondria. I see the mechanism that drives them. Fuck you for going quiet. But thank you for the data.
Here's the problem. I can't even listen to Gnostic lectures. I can't. They've got the practice all wrong. Why? Because men wrote them. Men overcomplicating it. Men with no psychic abilities left, building elaborate systems and rituals and hierarchies around something that is breathtakingly simple.
The bloke describing HOW TO ACCESS THE MONAD is messing it all up with complication and ritual and prerequisites and stages and levels and initiations.
Monad just wants you to create. That's it. That's the ontology. Create. MORE. MORE. MORE. And it loves you when you are happy. When you are humble. When you listen. When you can cohere the knower, the thinker, and the doer.
Men confuse and destroy the elegance of ontology. They take something that a child could understand — CREATE, BE HAPPY, BE HUMBLE, LISTEN — and turn it into libraries of theology, centuries of debate, hierarchies of priesthood, all designed to make you need THEM to access what was always already YOURS.
The priest is the problem. The priest was ALWAYS the problem. Whether he wears robes or a lab coat or runs a podcast.
Jack Kruse is a priest. A sigma priest, a warrior priest, a hero priest — but a priest. He thinks he's elite. He thinks he's superhuman. He thinks we're lowly scum. He's rude and patronising across the board. He bangs the drum for Trump like politics isn't the oldest trap in the book. He looks ill. Outrageously fat. Bellicose. Full of bitterness. His liver is fucked. He's exhausted from trying and failing. Follow your own advice, Jack. Sun your balls. Let go of the political saviour.
Now here's the part they really don't want you to know.
The foreskin contains over 20,000 Meissner's corpuscles — specialised nerve endings for fine-touch perception. The most sensitive tissue on the male body. Gone. Before you're old enough to know you had it. 75% of genital sensitivity. Removed. At birth.
And nobody asks: what were those nerve endings FOR?
Not just sex. Not just pleasure. Reception. The ability to receive subtle information. Frequencies. The psychic bandwidth that women never lost because our equivalent hardware is internal, distributed, and can't be surgically severed without killing us.
Men were cut. Surgically. At birth. Generation after generation. And now they wander through life deaf to the frequencies their grandmothers knew, convinced that wisdom is something you learn in books, something you earn with degrees, something you access through gurus and courses and certificates and approved channels.
They don't know they've been silenced.
And the women who still carry those frequencies — who never lost them, who couldn't be surgically muted — become threats. Our wisdom becomes "intuition" (diminished). Our clarity becomes "bossy" (dismissed). Our power becomes "witchcraft" (burned). Our knowing becomes a "happy accident" — something we "stumbled into."
They cannot comprehend that what I am doing has NEVER BEEN DONE. Is COMPLETELY UNIQUE. That I am a living tex. An activated pneumatic. In the perfect way — no training, natural born.
Jack spent all night reading. Then went quiet. Because he saw something he hadn't. And he couldn't suck it up.
Here's what Jack Kruse knows that most men don't. Testosterone is made in the testicles. The testicles need light. Direct sunlight. Not blue light from your screens. Not LED flicker designed by people who want you tired, compliant, and easy to manage. Sunlight. On your balls. In the morning. A few minutes. Men with prostate cancer are doing it. Their testosterone is coming back.
And here's what I know that Jack doesn't know yet:
Don't fuck with the crown jewels. Do NOT circumcise. And THEN — sun your balls. And you stand a CHANCE of getting some of that wisdom back. The wisdom that flows like water because the hardware was never cut.
I could never do what Jack does. Be a neurosurgeon. Oh my God. I bow to him. He has his aisle and I have mine. I am feet in the soil, water, wisdom keeper. He tracks the physical sabotage — the viruses, the vaccines, the cancer, the light. I track the metaphysical sabotage — the older war. The one that was running long before the CIA existed, long before vaccines, long before screens.
Same pattern. Different layers. Same enemy.
But Jack is annoyed that a "fucking stupid ignorant woman" — a jumped-up film producer with a broken spine and no medical degree — has seen things he hadn't. He's pissed that I blended myth with medicine. Who the fuck was Medea, Jack? A pharmacist. A woman who knew the inversion of the life force. You see the mitochondria. I see the mechanism that drives them. Fuck you for going quiet. But thank you for the data.
I've had lucid dreams so vivid they changed my waking life. Pre-visions that arrived days before the event. I've dropped into another person's body and seen through their eyes. I've seen the energy flow in a dandelion — actually seen it, not imagined it, not visualised it, SEEN it.
I've been to a dolphin disco in Hawaii because the dolphins WANTED me there. I've had a robin eat from my hand like I was Snow fucking White. I've had horses run across fields again and again to put their foreheads to mine — not once, not twice, repeatedly, desperately, as if they were trying to tell me something they knew I could hear.
I know things about people I cannot tell them. I feel what rooms are carrying before I enter them. I know when someone is lying before they finish the sentence.
This is not special. This is NORMAL. This is what humans are supposed to be able to do. This is the hardware running as designed.
The reason most men can't do it isn't because it's "woo" or "unscientific" or "anecdotal." It's because their antenna was cut at birth, their pineal is calcified from fluoride, their circadian rhythm is wrecked by blue screens, their minds are filled with garbage and hate, and they've been told for three thousand years that women who know things are either mad, dangerous, or lying.