Trading to win using the Secret Code of the Illuminati

Sans of Time

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Art of Trading

All the world’s a stage

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What part are we playing right now?

Will it make a difference?

In a few days?

In a few months?

A few years?

For how  long do we see our legacy reaching?

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As a trader or investor, this is an important question.

For anyone who wants to think beyond the “entertainment” mentality, is it worth a few moments of our time to consider our many available choices?

What is the sum total of all our efforts, and to what purpose are we striving?

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If it is an ego trip, it probably will be focused on the minutia, the details of impressing the current crowd of onlookers with our skillful selection of stabs at the market this way and that way as it meanders throughout the time and space continuum.

We attach our ego to the outcome of the accuracy of our selection, as if we control the market, and we want accolades from the crowds to make us feel better about what we are doing.

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In my opinion, we will not ever find happiness in this solitary pursuit if that is how we define ourselves.

We are only as good as our last “call”.

Truth for most of us is far more simple: “Can we earn a living from our trading and  investment business?

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I was asked to play in  a member guest golf tournament Friday and Saturday. I met some wonderful people, had fun, played reasonably well. My expectations are much lower these days. Playing perhaps five or six times a year isn’t enough to have my game of play at the level I once enjoyed. Still, there were a number of players there who would love to have my swing and understanding of the game.

Technology has made some wonderful improvements to the modern equipment, but there is no substitute for experience and continued refinement of our skill.

Currently, what I lack in golf is consistency. The muscle memory is there, but a bit more forgetful than I would like it to be.

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In our trading business, I think we are all subject to similar perils. The many moods of the market are gradually revealed to us over time. A year ago we were experiencing 38 point swings with regularity on a daily basis; now there are days with less than ten points from start to finish.

Adjustments need to me made as this aging Bull evolves.

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Target achieved, avoid over trading.

Friday afternoon, Big Boyz squaring up, git ‘er done and go play golf.

Pre market shows the range idea.

Where do we go from here?

Only the market knows, but if history repeats itself, we must accept the inevitable bumps and bruises and falls as we stumble around, looking for our lost youthful energy and passion.

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Doug Ford, a relative of one of our former Presidents plays at the course where this tournament was held. He is in his mid-eighties, and unfortunately stumbled and fell two holes before he completed his first round. We were told he was having surgery yesterday for some broken bones in his shoulder, and probably has played  his last round of golf.

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 One

Two

Three

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We obviously are approaching  a level where we need to observe the reaction of the Market Memory Muscle…

Jealous in Honor at least I would guess…

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All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms.
And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper’d pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

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