This is the story of my life up to the events in “Aris”. In it I’d like to give you an idea of what sort of person I am and what I am doing.I wrote something similar once which I have based this off, and both times for me were very cathartic: I felt like I was coming to terms with something I had buried.
I know some people will balk at the supernatural elements in this story. For those guys, if you still choose to read this, I ask you to consider it to be a fictional story which I tell as if real to make it more powerful. I think there is something to learn here for everyone.
Two motifs that have been with me all through my life have been light and darkness, and power and powerlessness.
I only began to fully understand all of this about half a year ago, when I had a psychic reading with Erin Pavlina. Or perhaps I’d always understood, but I had tried to close my eyes to the truth. My ego, of course, wanted me to be powerful, but at the same time there was a huge resistance to the idea – a feeling that I’d be “arrogant” if I were to express my true self. So scared of my own power was I, that I disowned it; then later, under an immense fear of victimization, I’d overplay it to cover up my vulnerability.
As for darkness, I was brought up in a dark environment, at direct odds with my inner self, which has caused the most immense clashes in me, at times becoming close to bipolar disorder. I have experienced both spiritual ecstasy and suicidal depression. I have suffered hugely and been cruel and egotistical. Erin, bless her, told me that this was just a shell I had picked up in this life. That is such a beautiful thing to hear when some part of you knows it, but some other part thinks you are worthless and broken beyond repair.
I was born in 1990, an Aquarius, into the same dark world everyone is born into, and underwent the same barbarities: being torn out of my mothers’ arms and subjected to various tests, vaccinated with substances which could potentially kill me, left alone… why do you think babies cry so much? Because they haven’t built up scar tissue over the continuous violence they have to put up with every day, that’s why.
My first memories are of incredibly intense emotion: intense love, for my family and mother in particular, and intense pain and shame. My light was clashing with the darkness growing in me, and my immense spiritual energy was still going unhindered into both. My parents often told me that they loved me, but whatever they said, they couldn’t communicate, couldn’t connect. They’d go through the motions so that they could be “good people” (always trying to be good and normal, always putting up a façade), but who were they fooling? I felt I needed something, but I didn’t know how life could be: I just thought this was normal. Occasionally my father would do something with me, like flying toy aeroplanes, which I loved, but when I asked him to do more stuff with me, he looked puzzled and said, “like what?” Connecting for the sake of connecting was something alien to him. There always had to be something you achieved by doing something. He loves love in words, but in practise he has no idea what it even is. So eventually it got too painful to even try, and finally too painful to even see the hopeless situation I was in. Feeling like I was unworthy of love, I had the same problem with my friends, to a greater or lesser extent. I was often pushing them away. I felt like that was just the way the world works: people don’t love each other! Love can’t be easy and free!
The whole family fought, and rather than attempting to resolve the issues that were being argued over (me and my sister felt constantly alienated, of course) the solution was to force us by any means necessary to shut up. We were shouted at to stop crying or to stop being angry until we couldn’t take the violence any more and bit our tongues. They were scared of uncontrollable emotions, and loved repressed emotions. Then everything would appear normal, and my parents could pretend to be happy again.
I loved my father, despite everything; but at about age 10 I think, he gave me the most horrible and unjust thrashing that I swore, in utter rage, to never forgive him, ever. This was only the culmination of all that he had done to me. The guy thought that it was cruel to put limits on me, so he let me do anything I wanted, but when it got too much he unloaded every ounce of his hate on me with the idea that this was “discipline”. So I hated discipline (I still think it’s a dumb thing to do), and I finally managed to hate my father. I got the idea that strength was the same as evil, and tended to prefer women to men. I wished I was a woman for a while. It didn’t help that my father tried to impose his feminist ideals on me, where men and women have to be exactly the same (contrast to true feminism, which says that men and women shouldn’t be forced to be one thing or the other), which left me a very sexually confused kid.
My childhood life was one of constant nightmares, fear of the dark, emotional pain, and shame, shame, shame. I was ashamed to be human, ashamed to be a child, and ashamed to be male. I thought I was ugly and fat. I genuinely wanted to kill myself at about age 5. I didn’t know how exactly, but I had the idea that I’d achieve it by putting a kitchen knife in my heart. I remember staring at the knife in my hand and trying to build up the courage. My parents laughed at me when I expressed that I “hated life”; they must have thought that I was trying to be cute. Never taking me seriously: why are children treated like this? Nowadays I talk to children like they are adults and they all love me for it. Black people could be emancipated, but children can’t be, and so we have this constant bullshit going round where children are stupid and are supposed to play all day and do nothing of importance. Children are expected to be stupid and their intelligence is constantly insulted until the majority of them bow their heads and agree to give up their genius. My parents generally encouraged me to be a genius at least, but I wasn’t allowed to use my genius to see the common sense that school is slavery. “Don’t be stupid, of course you have to go to school! It’s agonisingly horrible? Life’s agonisingly horrible! That’s just the way it is!” Other adults were just as bad, of course: “Who is this kid to think he’s old enough and educated enough to see common sense?” So there was a constant pressure to close my eyes, which bore more and more heavily on me as I went through life. But my light was too strong: it wouldn’t give me rest until I opened my eyes.
So I hated being a child. I thought that all I’d need was to be an adult and my problems would disappear. I’m grown up now, and sometimes I still feel like a child: I mean, that shame hasn’t magically gone away yet.
The first day of primary school, I tried to escape and tore my trousers climbing over the fence. I had dreams of flying at this time, wonderful dreams, but they’d always end with me losing my power to fly by increments, with the most horrible frustration.
In school, I was constantly shaking things up. I loved learning too much to be turned off by the classes, and learnt in my free time – I think at about age 8 I read “The Lord of the Rings” and “The Hitch-hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy”. Instead of putting up a façade of learning in school, I rebelled, or daydreamed out of escapism, like any healthy kid. I became a very successful class clown and got a little of the love I was missing like that. I was alternately high on attention and intensely ashamed when someone pricked my inflated head and let all the air out. In school I lived for home-time, and at home I lived for television, books and videogames – anything to escape.
The Standard Assessment Tests at age 8 (different from American SATs) made me cry repeatedly. The fear that if I failed at them I’d fail at life was intense. That seemed to be the message: you are fighting for your survival, which will be granted to you by an externnal agency if you succeed in jumping through these hoops. So I managed with a lot of self-flagellation effort to prove that I was a genius and went around telling everyone who will listen. I still didn’t feel adequate.
At 9 I was diagnosed with Crohn’s disease, which is an inflammation of the intestine with such a vague definition I suspect it doesn’t exist. Crohn’s disease, I later discovered, is really a combination of poisonous food and poisonous emotions – the same disease everyone has. I spent most of the rest of my life up to the present being tortured by doctors; maybe half of that time actively sick, and a fifth of the time in hospital. They gave me immunosuppressants and lied to me about their effects (“it only reduces the immune system in the gut, it can’t make you sick”). At one point taking them I had infection after infection, became sicker and sicker, and nearly died before I had the good sense to stop taking the drugs without telling my parents. They also put me on steriods, which screwed up my emotions and my general wellbeing so badly I wanted to die. They puffed up my face like a marshmallow and made me utterly confused and mentally disturbed. At one time in secondary school, about 13, I balanced my (extremely heavy) bag on the side of the rail over the staircase where people were passing and on an impulse, like this wasn’t real, I tipped it over. The people underneath managed to dodge it; if they hadn’t I probably would have broken someone’s neck and be in Juvenile Hall or a mental institution (my angels, thankyou so much). I couldn’t explain to the teacher who saw me why I did it. He didn’t punish me though. I didn’t realise it, but I think the teachers had some idea how much I was suffering.
The Perse School for Boys was a private school for smart people. For once I was challenged, and managed to enjoy my lessons, sometimes. I made some incredible friends with whom I could vibe very well on the sort of deep thoughts I had (though because of my fear of love, I didn’t appreciate them fully, and spent a lot of time alone when I might have enjoyed good company more). On the other hand, this was still the standard, evil school system. Regimentation, preprepared syllabuses, subservience to authority, fire drills, lining up, uniforms, anything to make you a bit less free and natural. Is natural bad? School thinks so. My darkness held me there, but my powerful light knew there was something very, very wrong. So my class clowning continued, and I rebelled against authority at every turn, and felt victimised when they retaliated. Still, when I left England I was shocked at how sad the teachers were to see me go. Apparently they like people with spirits, despite how they continually try to crush them.
I spent a lot of this time wishing I had a girlfriend, but sabotaging myself whenever I came close to being satisfied in my desires. I was scared of love being easy. Heck, I was scared of happiness being easy. I felt joy and love, yet something kept on dragging me back down into pride, shame, fear, suffering, and the hospital.
I fell in love with a girl in Poland on a one-week holiday. Her eyes were so beautiful, crystalline ice-blue of infinite depth, that I stared into them so deeply that were were… hypnotised. After a completely indeterminable amount of time, maybe five minutes or possibly an hour, I woke up and broke the spell. Then we sank into mutual trance again. Several times.
Funnily enough we never kissed; I was too scared, or too out of line with masculine energy, to take the lead. It was a tricky love, both feeling something deeply, but dancing around each other. As the masculine pole, it was up to me to do something, but I tried to wait until there was some sort of incontrovertible evidence that she liked me.
She said I was “so beautiful”. Yet I couldn’t make myself believe it.
I loved her intensely, and truly in a way, but as soon as I got back to England I started obsessing about her. She was my way of escaping reality.
At about 14 my parents moved to Spain, and I moved with them. I didn’t know any Spanish.
At this time I was so entrenched in my darkness that I wanted to believe that I didn’t need company, while at the same time craving it. In England I was kind of okay; there were a few people who could get through to me. In Spain, I started to sink into the deepest pits.
I started spending more and more time on the internet. I didn’t try very hard to mix with the people at the school, who I hated for being normal (and I pushed away the people I would have enjoyed being with. Among other things, I was ashamed of my poor Spanish and frustrated trying to communicate). I had an incredible romance with a girl over the internet who did resonate with my truest self, my first true love, who I’m still friends with today. This kept me going when I was more sick and lonely than ever; but I think I was too scared of sexuality to get it on with anyone nearby. It was the combination of my dark side and the language barrier that really did it. I got into seduction literature to work out what it was I was doing wrong, or maybe just to avoid reality and build my ego. The more alone I was, the bigger I could make my ego. Seduction literature supported me in my desire to believe that love and sex were hard. It was also the start of my Seeking – spiritual seeking you could call it, but at that time I snorted at anything to do with spirituality, wanting the world to be scientific and measurable, so my desire to find myself started out with looking into sexuality, one of the biggest areas where I felt a “wrongness” in my life. Then I got into psychology and spent literally hundreds of hours in my head psychoanalysing myself. This all helped as well as hindered, but my ego grew and grew, and I got weirder and weirder. I hated conformity so much that I would fight tooth and nail to be an individual; and when I got into my darkness this often translated into being weird for the sake of it, to prove a point.
I started to believe, thanks to psychoanalysis, that the meaning of life was to be socially successful, which built my desire to have friends, and my fear of success, too. I made it into way too much of a big thing.
School wasn’t too bad here: Spanish are Spanish, and though they got their system from foreign lands, they made it almost friendly by being totally and utterly ineffectual. I passed the grades without paying one iota of attention in class. I generally slept. School almost didn’t exist for me during this time. It was just the background for my psychoanalysis, ego-building, and my search for answers.
Those years I suffered the worst from my disease. There were times when I spent months in hospital with no food but a sugar-drip, and ended up becoming too weak to even walk. I had surgery, and there were some days when the pain was so intense I just passed in and out of consciousness all day. I think this suffering catalyzed my spiritual seeking, because it was through coping with pain that I learnt to let go of my ego. My sister said that when I was close to death, a sort of noble light shined out of me which she described as my future self.
This incredible endurance helped bring out an inner fire. My light was struggling to come forth. It KNEW there was something more to life! For some months, after suffering, there were quiet periods of incredible, inexplicable joy and love for life. When this went away, all I wanted was to know where it came from and how to find it again, although at this time my ego generally took over the reigns and lead me astray time and time again.
King’s College, Madrid
Having “discovered” that I needed friends, I decided to go to a British school in Madrid where I’d be able to speak English with people.
Now this was an evil school. The place reflected the darkness that I myself was in. I made some true friends, but didn’t appreciate them, couldn’t let myself get close, and kept on running away from their light. It took me a long time to realise that maybe there was something more to life than making other people into points that you scored every time you got a superficial scrap of approval. On the other hand, my light knew this, and I could never let myself fit into robot society. I knew there was something more. I knew it! But for a year all I knew to do was to build my ego up through more psychology and philosophy, all the while missing my objective. I wrote several manifestos on how I’d “changed” and what I’d “discovered”, trying to get people to think me clever. This was just delusion after delusion.
In King’s, I struggled to come to terms with my sexuality. Like with friends, with sexual partners I both tried to come close and pushed them away. For both I had a foul attitude, full of hate for them for withdrawing what I thought was rightfully mine. Girls liked me sexually – they tend to – but I was too insecure to believe it. One wrote me a love-letter, and I got really weird and messed it up (messed it up? Shouldn’t I have started by investigating into if she was cool enough to spend time with? Yet I thought it was life or death that I got a girlfriend – any girlfriend). Another girl expressed attraction to me indirectly, so I seized that chance, kind of. I danced about her with my fear of taking the lead, trying to get her to show she liked me, and finally the best I did was masturbate with her listening on the telephone (she said she liked that, incidentally. You can’t say I’m not brave in my way). But I was too scared of sex, which I had made into something massive and heroic, to do the obvious and take her into my bedroom at school. Finally, in order to feel like I wasn’t a “virgin” and to get over this fear, I paid for a cheap prostitute. She was old, ugly and had sagging tits. I couldn’t get it up, unsurprisingly. That was horrible. It was traumatic. She looked at me funny afterwards, like “what is this gorgeous young guy doing here?”
I only started to really experience the realms of physical love a few months ago, starting with Ruth, who I will dedicate a post to. Though I had experienced true love, due to my mythologizing of physical love, I hadn’t even kissed a girl until I was about… I don’t know, 17? I don’t care, incidentally. Kissing is kissing and sex is sex. It’s not an achievement, it’s an experience to be shared if and only if the time is right.
In King’s, the school system, I felt like I was being robbed of my purpose and made into a cog for a machine. Most people tolerated it, but if it was really meant to be dedicated to education I wanted to learn well, and at every turn it had some kind of bullshit that stopped me doing so. In fact, if you study up you’ll realise school is not about education, it is about brainwashing. I had this horrible, horrible feeling that something was wrong, but I couldn’t let myself see it. In a world of blind people you think you are crazy for having eyes. I couldn’t express my anger. Everything was wrong about school, everything! I shouldn’t need to argue against school, school should justify all of its absurd dogmas to me! Tests? Why? Punishments? Why? Why do I need to learn something which someone else decides is what I need? Why do I need to prove to some faceless boss that I am capable of passing exams? But no-one could see that! Especially not my parents, who had a lot invested in having me prop up their belief systems. They said, “work with the system, change the system from inside, do your exams” (interestingly, working within the system never worked for them, so I wonder why they thought they had anything of use to say to me). I wanted to rebel, as always, and yet my fear was getting so strong that I tried to bury that part of myself. I distinctly remember a time when my anger suddenly gave way to complete and utter hopelessness, and I started sleeping all day using my sickness as an excuse. I managed to lose maybe half of the time I was supposed to be in school like that. But that wasn’t enough for me.
After one year of me being nuts, trying again and again to find that special craziness that would make me happy, all the time building my ego without realising that the ego was the problem, and school being just as crazy (only a little more stable)… I decided I would do home-school.
It was common sense. If exams are really what matters, then I didn’t need to spend all my time in school: you pass exams by cramming, not by spending the year in class. That was rather a poor unexamined assumption: that exams matter. But I was so scared of going outside the system still that this was the best I could do. (Nowadays I know that the system is only an illusion that becomes real if you fear it. Survival is very easy).
I started off my home-schooling year with determination. Within a month I was spending almost all my time at home alone, sleeping 12 hours a day and alternately attempting to drown my suffering in distractions and porn, and doing what I did: searching for answers. I read a lot of Steve Pavlina, got into anarchist literature (to try and escape from the system), more psychology, and finally spirituality. I had been violently against anything non-scientific, but Steve Pavlina gently challenged me to expand my horizons, then finally The Power of Now by Eckhart Tolle broke through with the message that I had always known: that suffering is something rather subtle and not caused by any physical lack. I had known this. I remember writing something similar as a child: “if you want to be happy, BE HAPPY. It’s pretty much that simple”. And yet I had decided to forget it.
By the end of the year I was in a terrible state. My mental structures had built up to gargantuan hights. My solitude, my simultaneous craving and fear of company, was as intense as it had ever been. My emotions, under my inability to express myself had festered and were poisoning me. I still didn’t realise how much my parents were affecting me. I was still gripped by my darkness and held down into their games by my shame and belief that I was unworthy of love.
I went for my first exam. The topic I chose to do was kind of crazy, but I did it and fuck the teachers if they thought it was too unorthodox. I wanted to have my originality! Exams shouldn’t reward the person who bends over backwards most to please!
After that, a teacher emailed me about something to do with the exams, in a patronising tone that I had spent long enough time without for it to be intolerable to me this time. I replied to her like she was an equal using common sense – in the same way everyone would talk to each other if they weren’t forced to live in a system where they were made to fear authority. I was starting to break free, but at this time it was my anger that was talking. If my love for life was guiding this process, it was only deep down; for now I was being driven by my anger which covered up an intense feeling of vulnerability. I was running away from a fear of being trapped any longer in the soul-eating system; and yet I had no idea where to run to. I was like a trapped animal, fight-or-flight, yet I didn’t realise that all the enemies were in my head.
So I told myself that if I had to sacrifice my integrity by talking to teachers with anything less than equality and common sense, I’d give up the exams. In a way that was the decision to give up the exams in itself. I knew that it was wrong, everything was wrong, and I didn’t want to be ABLE to continue in the system. I didn’t want the temptation.
When I came to do the next exams, she had her husband talk to me about what I had wrote to her. I replied to him as an equal, using common sense, and refused to back down, no matter how much he tried to use his “authority” on me. He didn’t like that, and “requested” I leave the premises. I strung him along for a long time with the excuse that I had to find my bag, talking to people and ignoring him, despite threats to call the police. I had to prove a point.
Then I stole back to spend time with a kid I had made friends with. I tried to teach him to rebel against school. I don’t know if I really cared about him or if this was entirely my runaway ego at work. I don’t think I was necessarily a good influence, anyway. But the guy did have some soul, which the school will attempt to torture out of him as he grows up. I hope he does ok.
My parents came to fetch me, with a look in their eyes like I was crazy and had to be looked after. They told me that the teachers thought I had acted very weird. We talked on the way back, and my incredible anger was coming out against their repression too. When I told them how I intended to live my life, they told me with a harsh tone that that meant that I would always be utterly alone. I shouted at them, trying to get them to see common sense, and completely powerless against their stark refusal to do so. I had to prove the point, I had to win, it wasn’t enough to live my life. It hurt too much to think that my parents would never understand me.
I wrote a manifesto about what was wrong with the school system after that, but it was all anger, and all avoidance of my feeling of vulnerability. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t fight in the outside world the fear that was inside me.
After that, I spent time alone in my parents’ house. I started to go mad. I had anxiety attacks. I spent so much time thinking that sometimes I couldn’t sleep. I was trying to break free of the system using my fear energy. I set about writing the ultimate book that would change the world and make me famous. I did this by intensifying my fear energy to the point that I could break through the resistance I had to my own power. I KNEW that Eckhart Tolle said “don’t think”, but I felt there was something more to work out. There was, in a way, but it wasn’t where I was looking.
I got into magic(k), subjective reality (the idea that reality can be affected by your beliefs), and all related subjects of mind-over-matter. They are tricky things at the best of times, but at this point, I really went mad. I made mental structures, half-genius, half-insane, that were to help me combine the understanding of all of these disciplines, plus science, math, art, religion, everything: a total unifying system. I think Herman Hesse wrote about something like this in “The Glass Bead Game”, a denunciation of mental masturbation. But this was practical – I had been living in my head before, but now deluding myself could change reality! Life is a dream! Everything is possible! I am God!
I talked with famous people psychically.
I talked with the spirit of the water in a bathtub.
I thought I died and then returned to life in an alternate reality via a “save-game”.
I got a woman I was sitting next to hot by projecting sex vibes into her (too scared to just say “hi”).
I ravished a psychic, mentally, while sitting in a lecture.
I tried to copy magical skills I’d seen in anime shows.
I became intensely scared I’d wake up from a coma and realise I’d dreamt all this, back in a world where magic wasn’t real.
I fantasized about dominating the world and becoming a “dark buddha”.
I wrote one of the best poems I’ve ever written.
I stood before the sea, and used willpower to cure my bad eyesight so I could see the whales that were coming up for air. I zoomed right in, time slowed down, and I saw each of them come up one after the other, all at once, to bask in my energy. I was so drained afterwards, nearly fainting, that I touched my sister and “vampired” energy out of her. She noticed that, alright.
Some of this was real, some of it had some effect but less than what I deluded myself to believe, and some of it was all in my mind. As with all dark magic, though, and all dark technology for that matter, the price was a thousand times what it was worth.
I was totally addicted. Timothy Ferris wrote something like “I felt like I was on a runaway freight train with no brakes, throwing coal on the fire for lack of a better option”. This describes me completely. Finally I used so much energy that I felt I was going to be torn out of my body.
For more than a month I was utterly wiped out. After that I swore to become a monk or something, and to give up my own power. In my darkness I still believed that the choice was either be a victim, or be a tyrant. But I think my calling out for help saved me, anyway. I played the next year or so safe, unemployed and languishing at home, and slowly rose out of my pit.
Half a year ago
A painter and his wife visited the house. They invited me to come see some art with them. I was like, “Well… I can’t really, my timetable’s pretty full, I’ve got a lot of languishing in my own misery to do, but… fuck it”. I asked them what it takes to be a painter, and was invited to do an apprenticeship with him. I accepted and went to France.
In France, away from the dark influence of my parents, I started feeling better and better. My intuition and psychic abilities grew in a much more gentle way.
After a month, I went home. I suddenly realised how horrible the energy there was. So I put up a psychic shield.
The day after, I had a psychic reading with Erin Pavlina.
How can I say it? This was probably the most pivotal event in my whole life. Just to have someone understand me and let me feel okay to be myself was incredible! The first thing she said was, “I sense great power, and great powerlessness.” She explained the blockages in my first three chakras. She told me she sensed a shield, an unusual one in that it was letting in the light but not the darkness – most shields block out all connection – and I told her I had made it the day before (she advised me to take it down, and gave me a better formula for protection). She went over so many things of such importance: the hour passed like ten minutes! I won’t describe all these things. Most importantly, though, she told me that my parents were the energy that was holding me down, and that I was a being of light. She told me that I had a very powerful and loving core, just a dirty shell. When I felt so disgusting, dirty, and ashamed to exist, how amazing to hear that!
Somehow she had managed to connect with the deepest part of me. I was crying quite soon. She revealed to me, or rather let me know it was okay to see this truth, that my parents have been through much fewer incarnations than me and are much less wise. Yet this was what made me cry. “How do I stop them suffering?!” It’s the most terrible thing, to have experienced the light, and to know that I would again, yet to know that they would suffer horribly their whole lives without even knowing what they are missing. Their WHOLE lives!
“You can’t,” she said, with such deep understanding.
My ego, a tiny voice at this time, was like, “What? You have compassion? Who is this person? Stop crying! Cry more! Be controllable!” But to no avail.
When the time came to hang up, my voice was weak. “Thankyou… thankyou… thankyou…”
The day after, I went for a long walk, and cleared my chakras like Erin had advised me to do – with such force of will that I was screaming into the echoing valley. As I went, I felt energies grasping after me.
When I returned, the cleansing had increased my sensitivity to the point where I could sense my parents’ house as a presence. It was… indescribable. Within 200 metres I started crying uncontrollably. I felt like I was dying. I felt like Jesus walking to Golgotha.
In there, it was… torture. I told the guest that I couldn’t help her with her business venture after all, but recommended she aim high. Then I proceeded to the kitchen, where I spent maybe an hour lying on the floor, immobilised by tears and even screams of agony. So much suffering! So much… I even thought I heard whispering, poisonous thoughts repeated again and again until they had become part of the air…
Finally I packed my bag and ran away, feeling the house pull at me all the time.
With a bit of roundabout I finally ended up in Barcelona, and started a year of the most intense growth and self-exploration.
After a month staying in the house of the friends of my parents, they were starting to pressure me into getting a job (I was only interested in my spiritual development). At that point I found the University of Barcelona, which was being squatted by students in protest against the Bologna Process, a new legislation designed to dehumanise education even further. I loved the people, and the lodgings were free, so I dragged a mattress over there, just after Christmas.
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The story is continued in Aris.
It’s also continued here after a summary of what you’ve read on this page.
If you’re interested in learning about the evils of the education system which I’ve been railing against in this post, there is nothing like John Taylor Gatto, whose books I’ve reviewed here.