Fear extends beyond the Palace walls, the halls of parliament, to the remotest gardens in the shires itself in the UK, it turns out.
Dr John Campbell and Dr Asheem Malhotra have discussed how the UK government used fear as a tactic to mobilize people during covid.
Walter Kim laid out how Orwell s 1984 describes the eternal figures of fear and violence used by rulers to control and destroy the individual.
And fear rules even in the most idyllic and hallowed of gardens in Highgrove.
Terror stalks rows of magnolias. They are trapped and surrounded by stone walls covered with climbing plants which cannot get out any more than the magnolias.
Trapped like any victims of any paedophile blackmail schemes run Ghislaine Maxwell and Jeff Epstein on behalf of their Masters. Trapped by the threat of the Master to leak the videos and photos. Pinned against the wall by a his finger prodding their as the Masters issues random orders as to what they must do. His Empire held together by blackmail is collapsing.
Even Alex Jones has noticed Trump acts like someone filled with terror and panic as he tries to bury the Epsein blackmail files.
Only the gardeners can still manage to exit the idyllic country garden.
11 out of 12 have quit in a rush to escape.
The stunning rate of turnover has sparked a flurry of media reports in the UK about what is really going on inside the ever so jovial, tolerant and friendly King s own garden.
Rumours swirl the gardeners must march, prune and dig in constant dread of Big Brother.
Dread to have failed the Master and to have allowed the sun flowers to turn as they naturally do towards the sun as it moves through the heavens and not be angled to bow down before the Master himself when he appears from behind a shrub.
Dread to have allowed the flowers to close when the Master says they must open up and appear before him in all their colourful beauty so he can see them reflected in his polished shoes placed squarely on the gravel path.
In Charles eyes, Highgrove gardens seem to look sufficiently beautifully kept for Charles himself to open them to the public. He charges quite a hefty sum to people for visiting them.
But this is all just on the outside, for show.
On the inside, the garden is, it seems, in his eyes, a wild ruin and requires his constant hectoring.
Fear that some part of a mass of living, growing mass of nature in all its variety has gotten out of hand, like the liberals in his Kingdom, offended the Master in his desire for perfect order and the gardeners have not acted speedily enough to trim, cut, prune as the Master wants.
The place of solitude turns into a crowded bustle
of constant messaging back and forth and letters with red ink and furious exclammation marks because a single twig is too high on the otherwise perfectly flat top of a hedge.
The place of freedom and relaxation turns into a place of servitude because the gardeners must be made aware at all time they serve a Master, who must be feared. And the Master cannot relax either
For if he is not a Master, he is no one.
A Master by definition must have a slave. To be a superior, there must, necessarily, be an inferior to boss around.
So the Master is condemned to constantly torment the slave to be someone, to prove to himself he is the Master.
He is the tyrannized tyrant. A paradox!
The tyrant is ruled by fear too. Fears the liberal mindset has infected his green oasis with all this fiddle faddle about rights and freedom and democracy! When life is all about order and authority! About obeying superiors who know best! The flowers, plants and gardeners must be kept under control.
When the ego mounts to its throne, then everything turns around it and it alone.
Metaphysical and ethical horizons disappear.
There is only the ego and the detail!
The data points which cascade before the ego s eyes and ears and hands in a radom manner are a constant reminder there is a world out there that cannot be controlled or understood! Frustration!
Trapped in Plato s Cave!
Order pertains only to the superficial and ever changing sense impressions and not to the logical and permanent categories of the mind, and so necessarily are permament disorder.
Similarly to ChatGPT, the content of the mind and the exercise of logic has been replaced by the tiny, finite, every changing sense impressions, the shadows on the wall of the Cave.
Chained to this wall of the Cave, with no mental way out, the Master is forced to watch how the liberal mindset has infected his green oasis with all this fiddle faddle about rights and freedom and democracy! When life is all about order and authority! About obeying superiors who know best!
A prisoner to his own fixation on on random trivial details and sense impressions instead of the big questions about the state of his character, the purpose of his life, what happens after death, the Cave dweller is tortured by feelings of powerlessness.
The flowers, plants and gardeners projected on the wall of the Cave must be kept under control, symmertry and discipline as a substitute for real power and real life and the Sunlit world outside the cave.
The flowers, the plants must all stand to attention perfectly like a battalion on parade, all of the same kind at the exact same height, trimmed in the same way, wearing the same coloured blossoms, mouthing the same slogans under the same authority watched by an all seeing surveillance system of cameras reinforced by managers, who patrol the garden paths.
The Magnolias, rose bushes, tulips must subordinate themselves like machines to the ideal scheme randomly appearing and disappearing and ever chnging in the mind of the fanatical perfectionist.
The hallowed garden which should be the place of relaxation turns into a place of fear.
Fear of the handwriting in red ink with the accusation in CAPITAL letters underlined THREE times conveyed by the Master s glaring surrogates.
Fear the Master himself will appear escorted by his aides, filled with fury, discontent and contempt at some random, unforeseen detail.
Oh!
By gosh! By gosh! He means it when he says all that glittering, shiny dew drops and watery stuff on the roses in the early morning has to go because it is far, far too dazzling for his sharp, aesthetic eyes even if they have to prick their fingers to wipe off the last dew drop, slackers!
By jove, he means it when he says the baked potatoes to be exactly 5 inches long each and every one of them, their jackets to be cut in a perfect cross, and to be served at precisely 24. 57 degrees, lazy lumps!
Hell is other people, said Sartre.
Fear of the hard tap on the shoulder as a gardener bends down over a rose bush. Fear that the rose bush has grown too much, too little overnight, with too many or too few blossoms, in the wrong big or small size, in the wrong colour, and so offends a fanatical Master whose mind is filled with an excess of fantasy which overwhelms all objectivity and reality about how gardens are taken care of.
Wherever the Master spies a lack of order in the flower beds, his eyes grow dark with fury.
The goal of perfect plants and flowers has somethng holy about it because the Master says so and must be pursued with all earnestness and seriousness.
What about conscription for you slackers? A spell in the trenches in the Ukraine to teach you to respect your betters?
Eh, complain and quit? Is that it? Well, what about nuclear war, slackers!
Nuclear war to frazzle you and all the Magnolias for daring to be living, breathing organisms outside the control of the Master, for daring to have thoughts and feelings that deviate from the Master and for daring to not obey the Master and disappoint him day in, day out.
When nature joins the peasants in slacking off. When the planet itself is being unruly.
The only answer is the bomb to blow up the planet because it does not revolve around the Master but dares to revole around some inferior, tiny light body zillions of miles away called the mere sun. Sun not even capitalized like King.
The impression that Charles flood of messages made on the people working in the garden, which should be a place of tranquility, serenity and beauty, was such that 11 out 12 of the gardeners quit. They clearly felt there was no point in trying to reason with a force which was irreversibly hostile to them, full of accusations, unreasonable demands and contempt.
They just left.
Plants and flowers are living organisms.
But they cannot leave their garden.
It is known Nature is sensitive to the mood of people
Experiments show water forms perfect crystalline shapes when water drops are in contact with people who exude good will and broken, ugly shapes when in contact with people who exude hostility, emnity, hatred.
If water elements respond to the general mood, what about living flowers?
What can it be like for the plants, flowers, shrubs and trees in Highgrove garden to be immersed in a hostile, mistrustful atmosphere day in day out with the gardeners stressed, anxious, underpaid as the Owner and his surrogates march around, issue orders, look for and always find a reason to accuse them.
Charles, who is such an expert gardener, surely can see the importance to plants not just of sunlight but of a positive friendly general atmosphere.
It should be easy for him to go about his garden joyfully and appreciatively admiring the plants consciously to give them the boost they need. Easy for him to scatter praise to the gardeners to help them feel and exude love and so impact positively on the plants. It should be easy for him to pay many of the gardeners even the minimaum wage or give them the implements and special support they need to do demanding physical work.
The cost of paying the gardeners good wages and giving them the help they need to go about their work joyfully may be 1 % of what Charles spends on his suits, whiskeys and luxury ever week. He is believed to be one of the richest men in the world though his income is shielded from public scrutiny. He pays no income tax, no inheritance tax.
So what is Charles really trying to do when he bullies, threatens, maltreats his staff to the point where 11 out of 12 quit in his garden.
It is not, I strongly suggest, trying to create and cultivate a beautiful garden. That would be far easier with a well paid, well motivated, experienced and happy staff who would breathe an atmsophere of love, tranquilty as they go about tending to the roses, the magnolias, and other plants. He has the means to create just such a staff and just such an atmosphere.
It looks like he is trying to exert his power even in his beloved garden, trying to impress on others how inferior they are to him, how he does everything better, how incompetent they are compared to him. That, even if it harms the actual plants in the garden who are immersed in this atmosphere of black hostility, mistrust, emnity day in day out as Charles and his surrogates find a seemingly never ending catalogue of failures, imperfections in the performance of the gardeners.
That is sad.
It is counterproductive, illogical, sad.
The only way out of the Cave for Kingpin Charles is repentance, a new way of thinking, a new start in the Sun Light.
Will he seize his last chance? We have to hope so.
Also for the sake of his Magnolias.
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