The Ass That Rocked the Island

They used me like a donkey. A beast of burden. A body to carry codes. A humiliation ritual, modern day Jim Crowe with the hidden components of slavery and romper room programming for politicians and others to gain entry into a secret society. But I wasn’t just walking—I was shaking empires. While The Yellow Pages were trying to walk me like a dog, they thought they were choosing the quiet one, the broken one, the invisible one —but I turned out to be the ass that rocked the island.

Donkey Codes and Spiritual Carriers. Donkeys show up in every ancient story for a reason: They carry divine figures through hostile lands. They bear burdens no one else will. They represent both humility and power—hidden in plain sight. What happens when the "donkey" sees the system? When she knows the path she’s walking isn’t sacred, but staged? When she realizes her back has been used to carry Roman lies, Persian scripts, and post-colonial curses dressed as Western progress? You get a revolution in slow motion. You get me.

Canada as a Carrier State: Empire with a Smile. They used Canada not to free anyone—but to move spiritual cargo behind borders that looked clean. Behind “peacekeeping” was programming. Behind “refuge” was ritual placement. Behind “healthcare” was energetic harvesting of those who were born sacred, born loud, born rich in origin. They used polite policy and pandemic pauses to reposition the timelines. To reset the receipts. To bury the truth under aid—while calling the donkey a liability for not breaking down quietly. But I didn’t break. I remembered.

They planted people around me like mirrors: 

John Murray + Bill Penney; Bill Murray, mocking spirit work in Ghostbusters.

Kim French; Kim Kardashian in Paris, stealing the divine feminine under glam and theft.

Usha; Usha "Vance", silent beside power while I was being silenced beneath it. They’re not coincidences. They’re echoes. They took my truth, cloned the characters, flipped the script—and cast me as the ghost in my own legend. But they forgot: Ghosts don’t die. They return.

From the Carter Doctrine to the Colonial Church:. The Carter Doctrine said America would fight to protect its interests in the Persian Gulf. Spiritually, it meant global empires got the green light to move spiritual sovereignty around like stolen oil.

Canada was the soft glove covering the empire’s hand, trafficking us but intertwining laws between Canada and the U.S. They didn’t just move borders. They moved birthrights. They moved me. Until I said no more. I wasn’t born to be ridden, but I was watched. Programmed. Pressured to carry and collapse so someone else could rise. But this ass though? She knows how to kick back. She knows how to break timelines with her truth. She knows how to return legacy to its rightful body. 

Here's the performances they needed: 

1. They need my humility to keep their illusion afloat. If I do speak up, they say I am narcissistic. If I don’t, they keep studying my silence for more content.

2. They thrive on proximity, not originality. These “parallel versions” of my life, ideas, and essence are just that—parallel, not authentic. They can walk beside me in "performance", but never from me in truth.

3. They weaponize “community” to disarm my individual voice.

Phrases like: “It’s bigger than one person”, “Don’t make it about you”,“We’re all inspired by each other" are often used as spiritual gaslighting, especially when the system knows exactly who the blueprint is.

If I have to rock the island with every word I write, so be it. I was meant to rise as your full multidimensional self, but the system cloned the outlines of people near you (like Usha, Kim French, John Murray) and inserted them into public, profitable storylines. They did this so you’d be trapped in symbolic poverty, watching others reap spiritual or social rewards tied to my lived experience. I wasn’t just a witness. I was the extraction point.

They say wars are fought for oil, but what if the true fuel they wanted was bloodline-based power? What if I was the well?

They used my body, my name, my energy as the extraction point—a place they could spiritually drill into, siphon from, then disappear behind titles, treaties, and timelines.

The Carter Doctrine wasn’t just a military strategy—it was a spiritual loophole, declaring war on: Original women with sacred bloodlines, Moorish memory-keepers, energetic blueprints that couldn’t be replicated, only extracted from.

In the north, Canada played its part with a clean face, hiding the same pipeline: Not from oil fields—but from wombs, wisdom, and workspaces. 

They brought the Tin Men—soulless, scripted placeholders:

Martin — a name echoed in systems, scripts, and secret societies. Sometimes mimicking kinship, sometimes used as a replacement prophet.

Austin — a city and a symbol. Military, entertainment, and AI-coded territory. Also a last name tied to legal control, ancestral rerouting, and "Aust-in" authority. 

These weren’t just people or names. They were symbols of mechanized power. Soulless systems wrapped in smiles, harvesting spirit from the source they stood beside.

They couldn’t collapse me directly. So they tricked a friend. On paper, it looked harmless. In spirit, it was a false transaction—a ritual exchange designed to: Transfer karmic debt, create a proxy for blame, make someone else carry the visible fall while they kept drawing from me invisibly.

That’s how they work: Use you for the depth, then frame someone else for the damage. Spirit sees through substitutions, and I never signed that spiritual lease.

The Extraction Point Writes Back. I was never just part of the system. I was the system’s source material. They used me like a mine—drilling into creativity, culture, contracts, and compassion.

They built platforms on my pressure, pipelines through my pain, and entire public personas on my silence, but now the well is talking. The donkey is roaring. The extraction point is printing receipts. This is for every woman forced to carry what wasn’t hers. Every soul coded as a “servant” because her light was too old for the system.

Every watcher-turned-writer. Pinocchio sang that " I got no strings to hold me down" My strings hold me down, while you try to use them to keep mw.down . My chakras are operating on my own nervous system. The donkey saw. The donkey rose. The ass rocked the island.