by Hugh Mungus
MONEY ADDICTS
This is our most dangerous addiction — our addiction to things. For it is this addiction that underlies the materialism of our age. And nowhere is this addiction more apparent than in our addiction to money. ― Russell Peters * * http://www.azquotes.com/quote/989299 People are labelled "addicts" for dependency to anything these days. There are cocaine addicts, heroin addicts and morphine addicts. In short, there are drug addicts. Alcoholics are alcohol addicts. There are anger addicts, coffee addicts, exercise addicts, food addicts, gambling addicts, nicotine addicts, porn addicts, sex addicts, TV addicts, "work" addicts, etc., etc., etc. Anything the greedy can acquire cash from "treating" dependency to, is categorized an addiction. Centers for "remedy" of these obsessions are built. The Betty Ford Clinic, St. Jude's, SAMSHA, etc., etc., etc. An armada of phone numbers, should one suspect a "problem," are provided. Anybody doing anything to excess is classified an addict. Then why aren't those wasting their lives collecting cash, seen in the same light? Where are the hotlines for money junkies? Where are the rehab facilities for this addiction? If you found someone on the roadside obsessively gathering piles of cardboard, you'd conclude they were insane. Well, why don't you see those who fanatically gather piles of money in the same light? You've squandered your existence acquiring insignificant pieces of paper. That certainly seems an addiction, as you could've spent your days doing productive things beneficial to our species. Since pursuit of these useless strips of fabric has led our kind to near extinction ― thanks to our raping of Earth ― you would think this addiction would be considered the ultimate. However, it's never mentioned in the mainstream. Instead, the frenzied pursuit of money ― little strips of fabric ― is promoted as a sound and logical goal. Schools and universities are designed around it; widespread media stresses it; and parents actively advocate it. Due to our rabid race for currency, this planet is being depleted of its natural resources; resources, no less, our species requires, in order to survive. Soil ― which allows us to eat ― is being destroyed at an astronomical rate, thanks to our quest for cash. Foliage ― which enables us to breathe ― is being stripped from the planet, because we want money. Earth's atmosphere is being decimated, via our addiction to currency. In addition, humans have introduced the most virulent of substances ― fission and radioactive waste ― into our ecosystem, so folks can monetarily profit. We're literally killing our own species over the blind pursuit of stupid pieces of paper. Thus, this would seem the supreme addiction. Yet, somehow, we revere those who excel at it. Elon Musk and Jeff Bezos are overdosing money addicts ― thus responsible for colossal damage. Yet, they're revered. Idolized, these severe promoters of the pernicious are provided platforms from which to dispense their ideas. Being that "money is the root of all evil" ― according to our own words ― why do we venerate those who've most blatantly supported this nefarious system? We're all survival addicts. This fact is used against us by those we've placed in positions of "power." Our "leaders" ― which are nothing more than psychopathic control freaks ― constantly brainwash us the only way to subsist is via their system; the monetary system. Some of us support this suicidal scam, and become money addicts. Those who do are sick. If they don't get their fix, they stress ― creating mental and physical detriment ― or destroy their own kind for a hit of the smack. Such is not our natural state, but one we've been lied to is optimal. Don't believe me? Was your child, or your children, born with an acute hunger for cash? Were you? Of course not. Then this was something you were obviously indoctrinated into believing. Infants don't exit the womb, sleep a few hours, and attempt to suckle a hundred dollar bill. They aren't excruciatingly concerned with fistfuls of twenties, when suffering from thirst. It's only via brainwashing ― with which this scheme mercilessly bludgeons them ― they're transformed into money addicts. In our current system, if one were to create "treatment" centers for this addiction, their primary goal would be to obtain as much cash as possible. That's the main objective of any business, right? Such would be hypocritical to its patients. You "treat" somebody for an addiction to cash, yet only do so because you're getting paid, and are thereby an addict, as well?! We don't see ourselves as addicted in the same way we don't see ourselves as insane for believing "America" exists. This, even though we can fly above the planet, look down, not see any borders, and definitively prove it isn't there. If we were a different species, traveling to Earth, gazing upon this planet in an uninhabited state, we wouldn't see countries. Hence, we wouldn't recognize "America," "China," "Russia," etc. Then why do we believe that which isn't there, is? Again, we're brainwashed. Turn off your TVs; stop voting; stop listening to authority; and start thinking for yourselves. Allowing others to think "on your behalf" has brought you to a point in which everyone around you is contracting cancer, and you spend sleepless nights worrying you're next. Granting others the power to do your cogitation has placed you moments from nuclear annihilation, and drowning in radioactive fallout. Bequeathing others the "right" to ruminate for you has forced you to become a money addict, at the risk of death, should you refuse to acquiesce. If you still falsely believe you're doing your own thinking, ask yourself if you'd choose to pay bills and taxes. Would you elect to pay "debts" politicians you've never met before, have accrued? THE GORDIAN KNOT
The world will not be destroyed by those who do evil, but by those who watch them without doing anything. ― Albert Einstein * * http://www.azquotes.com/quote/517156 The solution to every problem you've ever had is simple: "Stop believing in authority!" You're searching for a panacea, and there it is. Now it's up to you to take it. Believe it or not, that's the hard part. Folks beg for a cure-all, but when provided one ― with proof it works ― they develop intense love for the disease. Since the illness is all they've known, a cure sounds horrifying. Authority is terrible, but authority only works if somebody ― or, in this case, almost everybody ― believes in it. Government can make its "laws," but these "laws" have no effect if people refuse to adhere to them. The "laws" of Ancient Rome are still in place, but since nobody abides by them anymore, we no longer allow them to alter our course. As Jiddu Krishnamurti explained, in terms of our species' problems, what we're experiencing is a "crisis in consciousness." ** We hold our destinies in our own hands. If we stop believing in authority, it vanishes immediately, since the only place it exists is within our minds. ** https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qZoiauymAVQ Authority will lie to you the "conundrums" we face are so complex they're insurmountable. Such is false. Of course these scumbags assume this modus operandi. If you realize the eradication of authority is the solution to your suffering, you dethrone it. As a result, those in "power" ― existing lavishly at your expense ― are reduced to the common populace. Exposed as the evildoers they are, they're thrown amongst the vulgus they've been abusing for so long. It's the prison warden who's been ordering his inmates beaten every night. Once this superintendent is found "guilty" of something, and tossed into the prison itself, how do you think inmates will treat their new fellow incarcerate? Do you believe this is a path those in authority want to take? The "dilemmas" we face are a Gordian Knot. "A what?!" I can delve into the Alexander the Great explanation, but that would be more painful than the anguish felt by Oprah when wigs are deemed illegal. Hence, let's just go with the simple definition: A Gordian Knot is a complex entanglement. When given a coil so intricate, it appears impossible to unscramble, you don't waste time "attempting" to solve the problem ― like authority wants you to. You actually solve the problem by removing the knot ― which, in this case, is authority. Instead of fruitlessly trying to unravel the quagmire in question, simply cut it from the rope, tie the two pieces together, and move on. *** *** https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gordian_Knot Your "problems" have been created, and convoluted by, those we've allowed to mislead us ― politicians, priests, teachers, etc., etc., etc. These assholes don't want you disentangling them. Hence, they enmesh them in a snarl so perplexing, you'll give up trying to "solve" it before you start. Why futilely attempt to untangle the knot, when you can simply eradicate it by eliminating it? To paraphrase Henry David Thoreau, thousands will hack at the leaves of evil, to the one who rips the root out of the ground, burns it to ashes, and buries it in a cement block at the bottom of the sea. Authority has created our "dilemmas." Our belief in authority perpetuates these "problems." Stop giving authority legitimacy, and these "complications" disappear. "How can we possibly feed every person on the planet?!" We've far more than enough sustenance for everyone on Earth to eat sufficiently. The only reason people are starving is because they don't have the money with which to pay for this abundant nourishment. If you don't conclude we need to eradicate money, in order to feed everyone, you're unable to perform math as simple as 2 - 1 = 1. If such is the case, you're either too retarded to read this sentence, or your goal is something other than eradicating human hunger. So, which is it? "How will we ever pay off the astronomic national debt?" You mean the "debt" that doesn't exist? A "debt" authority ― which lies to you about everything else ― tells you is real? A bunch of inherently useless pieces of paper ― known as cash ― you can't drink, eat, nor inhale? Don't "think outside the box," since this banal phrase was created by those who want you to conform. Think logically. Give the "debtors" all the cash on the planet, and end the monetary system immediately afterwards. Those you claim are hunting for money just got all of it, we just got rid of you ― the liars attempting to brainwash us there's a "debt" in the first place ― and now we're free. The Egg of Columbus is an example of thinking logically. **** **** https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Egg_of_Columbus You've got a hard-boiled egg in its shell. You're tasked with balancing it on its tip, without employing other implements. Most will mentally abuse themselves, to solve the problem. All one need do is tap the egg on its most conical curve, until the shell cracks to the point its intact portion becomes a sufficient base. At that juncture, simply place the egg on this ad hoc foundation. Again, these "challenges" we're incurring are "problems" we're now perpetuating ourselves. The answer to these "dilemmas" is not only simple, but ours to take. |
FRANCIS SCHLATTER
The only difference between a cult and a religion is the amount of real estate they own.
― Frank Zappa *
* http://www.azquotes.com/quote/809240
The human skeleton wasn’t so old the Sun had bleached it completely white. Whatever creatures had been gnawing at the bones were successful in stripping them of any remaining meat. In this forsaken region, the cause of death was most likely starvation.
The bridle, saddle and staff adjacent the body were indicators this person hadn’t planned on perishing in the hinterlands of New Mexico. In 1897, however, this type of event just happened in these parts. Stray too far from civilization, miscalculate rations, and suddenly you’re wandering in circles in a sandstorm, uncertain which way is north.
The desert was a cemetery, uncovering carcasses with the prevailing wind, and reinterring them after an aberrant gust. This particular stiff wasn’t anything new, had it not been for―
1909. Hastings, Nebraska. A sleazy hotel room. A second cadaver. This one, however, possessed enough flesh on its bones to stink like a garbage heap.
Hand-scrawled missives, around the accommodations, pinned the dead man as one Francis Schlatter. According to the pell-mell notes, the man had become fearful God would soon deprive him of his supernatural powers. In addition, this afflicted soul seemed to be having difficulty getting people to believe he was who he claimed.
Six months subsequent, Francis Schlatter was also arrested in the burgeoning boomtown of Toledo, Ohio, for illicitly accessing money reserves. After serving his sentence, the indicted disappeared, never to be heard from again.
1895. New Mexico. Rough-hewn hands reached out to the immobilized woman. The tanned, long-haired man attached to the healing implements recoiled momentarily, as the geriatric stood from her wheelchair, and walked for the first time in years.
Francis Schlatter ― a transient with what appeared the ability to cure afflictions with his touch ― was leading the sick from despair. Schlatter resided near Santa Fe, New Mexico, to which the hopeful traveled for a dose of his homemade healing.
In September of 1895, this miracle worker relocated to Denver, Colorado, to avail his talents to a larger populace. Staying as a guest of Alderman Edward L. Fox ― who claimed to have been cured of deafness by Schlatter ― Francis offered his abilities to assemblages.
The sick came from far and wide to receive a free healing of their maladies, as Frank refused payment for his services. Whilst in the Mile High City for two months, 60,000 folk ventured from various states to partake in Schlatter’s brand of the supernatural.
Stepping outside daily at 8 AM, Francis greeted throngs who’d congregated, even in near-winter weather, sleeping on the ground, if necessary. If they weren’t sick before, they would be now.
Those gathered viewed Schlatter as a vessel through which God was performing. To doubt his power was blasphemy.
Denver was soon overrun by pilgrims lacking the funds to return from whence they came. As a result, the city’s homeless population increased. Sufficient sewage facilities to accommodate crowds were in short supply.
Schlatter was offered considerable cash to take his brand of porta-doctor on the road, but continually declined.
Two months after his arrival in Denver, Frank disappeared. His room at the Fox house was discovered empty, save for roughly 20,000 letters from those seeking assistance.
A message left behind stated “the Father” had instructed him to vacate the premises. As to where Schlatter’s intended destination might have been, none were certain.
That changed in May of 1897, when what seemed to be the man’s decaying skeleton showed up in the wastelands of New Mexico. But was this really all that remained of the miracle healer, or was the cadaver discovered in Hastings, Nebraska ― 12 years later ― the true Francis Schlatter? Perhaps the man arrested six months subsequent ― in Toledo, Ohio ― was the phenomenon who, at one point, reached deification.
Schlatter, himself, presaged he would someday disappear, only to return again at a later date. Perhaps ― akin to Christ, the popularity of VCRs, or the rise of the Don Knotts’ School of Bodybuilding ― Francis will reappear in the future to heal again.
Such stated, the dude remained strong in his convictions, and refused to monetarily capitalize on his purported abilities.
SOURCES:
BOOKS:
Jessen, Kenneth C. (2006). Colorado's Strangest. J.V. Publications. ISBN: 1928656048
ONLINE SOURCES:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Francis_Schlatter
The only difference between a cult and a religion is the amount of real estate they own.
― Frank Zappa *
* http://www.azquotes.com/quote/809240
The human skeleton wasn’t so old the Sun had bleached it completely white. Whatever creatures had been gnawing at the bones were successful in stripping them of any remaining meat. In this forsaken region, the cause of death was most likely starvation.
The bridle, saddle and staff adjacent the body were indicators this person hadn’t planned on perishing in the hinterlands of New Mexico. In 1897, however, this type of event just happened in these parts. Stray too far from civilization, miscalculate rations, and suddenly you’re wandering in circles in a sandstorm, uncertain which way is north.
The desert was a cemetery, uncovering carcasses with the prevailing wind, and reinterring them after an aberrant gust. This particular stiff wasn’t anything new, had it not been for―
1909. Hastings, Nebraska. A sleazy hotel room. A second cadaver. This one, however, possessed enough flesh on its bones to stink like a garbage heap.
Hand-scrawled missives, around the accommodations, pinned the dead man as one Francis Schlatter. According to the pell-mell notes, the man had become fearful God would soon deprive him of his supernatural powers. In addition, this afflicted soul seemed to be having difficulty getting people to believe he was who he claimed.
Six months subsequent, Francis Schlatter was also arrested in the burgeoning boomtown of Toledo, Ohio, for illicitly accessing money reserves. After serving his sentence, the indicted disappeared, never to be heard from again.
1895. New Mexico. Rough-hewn hands reached out to the immobilized woman. The tanned, long-haired man attached to the healing implements recoiled momentarily, as the geriatric stood from her wheelchair, and walked for the first time in years.
Francis Schlatter ― a transient with what appeared the ability to cure afflictions with his touch ― was leading the sick from despair. Schlatter resided near Santa Fe, New Mexico, to which the hopeful traveled for a dose of his homemade healing.
In September of 1895, this miracle worker relocated to Denver, Colorado, to avail his talents to a larger populace. Staying as a guest of Alderman Edward L. Fox ― who claimed to have been cured of deafness by Schlatter ― Francis offered his abilities to assemblages.
The sick came from far and wide to receive a free healing of their maladies, as Frank refused payment for his services. Whilst in the Mile High City for two months, 60,000 folk ventured from various states to partake in Schlatter’s brand of the supernatural.
Stepping outside daily at 8 AM, Francis greeted throngs who’d congregated, even in near-winter weather, sleeping on the ground, if necessary. If they weren’t sick before, they would be now.
Those gathered viewed Schlatter as a vessel through which God was performing. To doubt his power was blasphemy.
Denver was soon overrun by pilgrims lacking the funds to return from whence they came. As a result, the city’s homeless population increased. Sufficient sewage facilities to accommodate crowds were in short supply.
Schlatter was offered considerable cash to take his brand of porta-doctor on the road, but continually declined.
Two months after his arrival in Denver, Frank disappeared. His room at the Fox house was discovered empty, save for roughly 20,000 letters from those seeking assistance.
A message left behind stated “the Father” had instructed him to vacate the premises. As to where Schlatter’s intended destination might have been, none were certain.
That changed in May of 1897, when what seemed to be the man’s decaying skeleton showed up in the wastelands of New Mexico. But was this really all that remained of the miracle healer, or was the cadaver discovered in Hastings, Nebraska ― 12 years later ― the true Francis Schlatter? Perhaps the man arrested six months subsequent ― in Toledo, Ohio ― was the phenomenon who, at one point, reached deification.
Schlatter, himself, presaged he would someday disappear, only to return again at a later date. Perhaps ― akin to Christ, the popularity of VCRs, or the rise of the Don Knotts’ School of Bodybuilding ― Francis will reappear in the future to heal again.
Such stated, the dude remained strong in his convictions, and refused to monetarily capitalize on his purported abilities.
SOURCES:
BOOKS:
Jessen, Kenneth C. (2006). Colorado's Strangest. J.V. Publications. ISBN: 1928656048
ONLINE SOURCES:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Francis_Schlatter
THE PANOPTICON
It gets harder the more you know, because the more you find out, the uglier everything seems.
― Frank Zappa *
* http://www.azquotes.com/quote/525956
Two cages.
Cage One is filled with lab rats starving to death.
Cage Two? The same type of rodents, only these are fed constantly, never wanting for sustenance.
Drop a piece of cheese into each cage. What do you think the reaction will be?
Obviously, the rats in Cage One will kill each other, to hoard that sole means of nutrition. Those in Cage Two will remain docile, civil and content.
In which prison do you think humanity resides?
We're nothing more than lab rats, at this point; experiments for those we've allowed to enslave us. Because we're brainwashed to believe there isn't enough to go around, we kill each other to get "our share."
You feel that palpable, cold demeanor every time a bill collector calls, demanding cash. You choke on the clinical nature of those who feign compassion, but leave their hands out for a monetary treat. Your "boss" commands you to remain on call 24 hours a day ― surrendering every moment of your existence to him ― so he can feel he owns you.
Did you ever have a job that you hated; worked really hard at? Long, hard day work, finally you get to go home, get in bed, close your eyes, and immediately you wake up and realize that the whole day at work had been a dream.
It's bad enough that you sell your waking life for minimum wage, but now they get your dreams for free.
― The Waking Life **
** https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w8OZistCNls
They don't call it Human Resources because they feel you're special, and warrant care. You're nothing more than a resource for them. It says so in the title, but you choose to overlook that, don't you?
Keep in mind, oil is a resource. So, too, are livestock. Wood and rock are also resources.
Hence, when they think of you, they envision a cow, pig or slab of stone. To them, you're not an individual with emotions, goals nor thoughts. To them, you're nothing more than another reserve. Yet, you ignore the obvious every day, and would've continued doing so, had I not informed you of such.
And these expository terms are ubiquitous. Still, you fail to notice. How could you not? You're asleep ― your eyes are closed ― oblivious to that occurring around you.
"Managing Human Capital." It's the slogan for a Human Resource company called Optyma.
Capital is defined by www.dictionary.com as:
the wealth, whether in money or property, owned or employed in business by an individual, firm, corporation, etc.
or:
assets remaining after the deduction of liabilities; the net worth of a business. ***
*** http://www.dictionary.com/browse/capital?s=t
You're viewed as inanimate wealth. Moreover, you're seen as somebody's property. Harken back to your "boss's" desire to control you 24/7. As comforting as the loving arms of Adolf Hitler, isn't it?
You're categorized in terms of "assets" and "liabilities," for fuck's sake!
Anybody who can reduce you to such in their minds will have no hesitation giving you cancer, and profiting monetarily from your suffering. Anyone who believes you're "capital" is so mentally ill, they'd be willing to kill you, in order to stock their bank account. They see you as cattle...and they eat steaks voraciously.
When dealing with government, that's what we're talking here. Again, they've nuked you over 1,000 times! More than 1,000 "tests" at the Nevada Test Site, and 67 more in the Marshall Islands ― where the jet stream flows directly over the "U.S." They only view your plight, in terms of pain and suffering, when relishing in your agony.
Even creepier is the dispassionate demeanor others adopt, in attempts to emulate our captors. Your doctor doesn't give a fuck about you, as he pumps you full of lethal drugs, in a rabid quest to fund his kid's trip to an Ivy League university. Do you really think your State Farm insurance agent would call every week, just to see how you were, if you decided to go with Blue Cross?!
I am not a number; I am a free man!
― Patrick McGoohan ****
**** https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nW-bFGzNMXw
How could you not comprehend you're just a number? You're assigned one ― a social security number ― at birth! You're forced to take your social security card ― which displays your social security number ― wherever you reside.
Since you're given a number ― exactly like a prisoner in prison ― for you to conclude you're anything but, in the eyes of this system, would be delusional on your part.
I get up at seven, yeah
And I go to work at nine
I got no time for livin'
Yes, I'm workin' all the time
It seems to me
I could live my life
A lot better than I think I am
I guess that's why they call me
They call me the working man
― Rush *****
***** https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iIGKlicb8n0
From the opposite side of the cardboard wall, in my no-bedroom apartment, I could hear Tom Selleck begging us to begin the day with Fukushima-infused fruit juice. Coating what remained of my teeth with fluoridated paste, and equally fluoridated water to wash it down, I cleansed away the remnants of my genetically-modified breakfast.
From there, I hit the road in search of further incarceration.
The corporate castle loomed in the distance ― complete with vampire bats encircling its spire, and motes doubling as speed bumps.
"Let's do the Wave, people! C'mon! Let's do the Wave!" the overzealous freak commanded the obsequious attendees in the dank basement of this megacorp mausoleum. Pleading to be enslaved, we followed suit, even though all we could think about was fucking, being fucked, doing drugs, laughing and taking trips.
It was a group interview, and we were allowing our dreams to be crushed by this fanatical Human Resource recruiter, due to a basic need to survive. If we didn't feign sycophancy, there was the looming possibility we'd die horrific deaths, starving in piss-filled gutters.
The last thing the recruiter, herself, wanted to do was the Wave, but here she was ― thanks to that necessity to keep food in her stomach ― faking exuberance over a primitive cheer. It was fuckin' disgusting, and I couldn't believe I'd been reduced to this.
When it came time to declare our personal hero, and why we admired them, I chose Bill Hicks. Noting the blank stares, I inquired if anybody in attendance knew who the late comedian was.
What ensued was the type of silence you'd expect to find if stone-cold deaf, suspended in a deprivation chamber.
Elucidating about Guillermo and his contributions to humanity, I could feel this particular enslavement slipping through my hands. By the time I hit The World is Like a Ride… monologue, I was shocked I hadn't been set on fire. When this "grown-up" version of follow-the-leader concluded, I commended myself for having worn a rubber whilst balls-deep in the beast.
People everywhere are selling their souls for "success." But "success" is constantly portrayed by some douche bag drinking $1,000,000 brandy that tastes like a pigeon's asshole.
"Success" is pretending you own a multi-million dollar home, even when an unfeeling bank can steal your mansion, should you fail to pay its blood money. All the while, you struggle to keep the castle in question by engaging in a "career" you hate that forces you to rape the resources of this planet, and kill off millions of your fellow humans in the process.
"Success" is killing your conscience to make your quota, by hawking the latest weapons systems to government, so they can decimate innocent people.
Everybody knows by now all businessmen are completely full of shit. Just the worst kind of low-life, criminal cocksuckers you could ever wanna run into. The fuckin' piece of shit business man.
And the proof of it […] is they don't even trust each other. They don't trust one another.
When a businessman sits down to negotiate a deal, the first thing he does is to automatically assume that the other guy is a complete lying prick who's trying to fuck him out of his money. So he's gotta do everything he can to fuck the other guy a little bit faster, and a little bit harder. And he's gotta do it with a big smile on his face. You know that big, bullshit businessman smile?
And if you're a customer, whoa! That's when you get the really big smile! Customer always gets a really big smile, as the businessman carefully positions himself directly behind the customer, and unzips his pants, and proceeds to "service" the account. […]
Now you know what they mean […] when they say, "We specialize in customer service."
Whoever coined the phrase "let the buyer beware" was probably bleeding from the asshole.
― George Carlin ******
****** https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VFl84lGveQs
In order to combat the anxiety generated by such a hideous existence, nearly everyone is drugged up.
If you want to understand a society, take a good look at the drugs it uses. And what can this tell you about American culture? Well, look at the drugs we use. Except for pharmaceutical poison, there are essentially only two drugs that Western civilization tolerates: Caffeine from Monday to Friday to energize you enough to make you a productive member of society, and alcohol from Friday to Monday to keep you too stupid to figure out the prison that you are living in.
― Bill Hicks *******
******* http://www.azquotes.com/quote/455364
We beat the shit out of ourselves to become "employed," yet none of us want to be. Clock-watching is a hobby as ubiquitous as taking a dump.
"I'm only here two more hours, and I can head home [to begin this vicious cycle over again, tomorrow]."
You're never free, and never will be, as long as you court this Panopticon that's designed to enslave you.
Shouldn't the long-term goal of any society be complete unemployment?
― Doug Stanhope ********
******** http://www.azquotes.com/quote/1439555
Of course! We strive to retire, and revere those who do early.
"You're only 32, and you're retired?! How'd you do it? What's your secret?!"
The sole reason we feel compelled to work is belief in our brainwashing from birth.
"You gotta stay in school, son, and get good grades, so you can get into college, so you can get a high-paying job, so you can become 'rich,' and 'successful,' and retire early."
Where, in the above, does helping humanity, bettering the situation for our kind, or repairing the damage we've done to this planet, come into play?
Moreover, if we're all stressing to retire, why the fuck are we working in the first place?! Why don't we just retire now, eradicate "work," and end our imprisonment?!
Because those at the top of this pyramid scheme would no longer remain at the top, if we refused to enslave ourselves for them.
"So, what's a Panopticon?"
It's a sick idea created in the 18th century by a dude named Jeremy Bentham. A Panopticon is a method by which one guard can surveil an entire prison. *********
********* https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Panopticon
In modern form, you create a circular penitentiary. The outer ring houses the cells, which face the center of the circle.
In the middle, you have the guard house ― high up, and manned by a sole sentry. Hence, this "screw" shack has a 360-degree, panoramic view of every cell, and every inmate. Pretty clever, huh?
"Yeah, but how can one guard ― stationed inside the guard house ― see all the prisoners at once? There's no way he can be at every point around his shack."
Correct. And he doesn't have to be. Here's where it gets disturbing.
You encircle the guard station with one-way glass. The "screw" inside can see out, but the incarcerates can't see in. As a result, the inmates have no idea whether the sentry is watching them, their fellow inmates, TV, or his nuts, as he jacks-off. They simply have to assume, at all times, they're the ones being observed by the guard.
Hence, their stress level is perpetually high, fearing they're constantly being surveilled. They're incentivized to refrain from breaking rules, or attempting to escape, since they're always concerned they're being viewed.
In contemporaneous society, we exist within a Panopticon ― the walls of which most of us fail to see.
Government is the guard shack in the center. It's from here we're perpetually reminded we're being scrutinized, and quite often are.
We have very little means by which we can determine if we're being watched, but bureaucracy keeps us enduringly fearful such is the case.
It gets harder the more you know, because the more you find out, the uglier everything seems.
― Frank Zappa *
* http://www.azquotes.com/quote/525956
Two cages.
Cage One is filled with lab rats starving to death.
Cage Two? The same type of rodents, only these are fed constantly, never wanting for sustenance.
Drop a piece of cheese into each cage. What do you think the reaction will be?
Obviously, the rats in Cage One will kill each other, to hoard that sole means of nutrition. Those in Cage Two will remain docile, civil and content.
In which prison do you think humanity resides?
We're nothing more than lab rats, at this point; experiments for those we've allowed to enslave us. Because we're brainwashed to believe there isn't enough to go around, we kill each other to get "our share."
You feel that palpable, cold demeanor every time a bill collector calls, demanding cash. You choke on the clinical nature of those who feign compassion, but leave their hands out for a monetary treat. Your "boss" commands you to remain on call 24 hours a day ― surrendering every moment of your existence to him ― so he can feel he owns you.
Did you ever have a job that you hated; worked really hard at? Long, hard day work, finally you get to go home, get in bed, close your eyes, and immediately you wake up and realize that the whole day at work had been a dream.
It's bad enough that you sell your waking life for minimum wage, but now they get your dreams for free.
― The Waking Life **
** https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w8OZistCNls
They don't call it Human Resources because they feel you're special, and warrant care. You're nothing more than a resource for them. It says so in the title, but you choose to overlook that, don't you?
Keep in mind, oil is a resource. So, too, are livestock. Wood and rock are also resources.
Hence, when they think of you, they envision a cow, pig or slab of stone. To them, you're not an individual with emotions, goals nor thoughts. To them, you're nothing more than another reserve. Yet, you ignore the obvious every day, and would've continued doing so, had I not informed you of such.
And these expository terms are ubiquitous. Still, you fail to notice. How could you not? You're asleep ― your eyes are closed ― oblivious to that occurring around you.
"Managing Human Capital." It's the slogan for a Human Resource company called Optyma.
Capital is defined by www.dictionary.com as:
the wealth, whether in money or property, owned or employed in business by an individual, firm, corporation, etc.
or:
assets remaining after the deduction of liabilities; the net worth of a business. ***
*** http://www.dictionary.com/browse/capital?s=t
You're viewed as inanimate wealth. Moreover, you're seen as somebody's property. Harken back to your "boss's" desire to control you 24/7. As comforting as the loving arms of Adolf Hitler, isn't it?
You're categorized in terms of "assets" and "liabilities," for fuck's sake!
Anybody who can reduce you to such in their minds will have no hesitation giving you cancer, and profiting monetarily from your suffering. Anyone who believes you're "capital" is so mentally ill, they'd be willing to kill you, in order to stock their bank account. They see you as cattle...and they eat steaks voraciously.
When dealing with government, that's what we're talking here. Again, they've nuked you over 1,000 times! More than 1,000 "tests" at the Nevada Test Site, and 67 more in the Marshall Islands ― where the jet stream flows directly over the "U.S." They only view your plight, in terms of pain and suffering, when relishing in your agony.
Even creepier is the dispassionate demeanor others adopt, in attempts to emulate our captors. Your doctor doesn't give a fuck about you, as he pumps you full of lethal drugs, in a rabid quest to fund his kid's trip to an Ivy League university. Do you really think your State Farm insurance agent would call every week, just to see how you were, if you decided to go with Blue Cross?!
I am not a number; I am a free man!
― Patrick McGoohan ****
**** https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nW-bFGzNMXw
How could you not comprehend you're just a number? You're assigned one ― a social security number ― at birth! You're forced to take your social security card ― which displays your social security number ― wherever you reside.
Since you're given a number ― exactly like a prisoner in prison ― for you to conclude you're anything but, in the eyes of this system, would be delusional on your part.
I get up at seven, yeah
And I go to work at nine
I got no time for livin'
Yes, I'm workin' all the time
It seems to me
I could live my life
A lot better than I think I am
I guess that's why they call me
They call me the working man
― Rush *****
***** https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iIGKlicb8n0
From the opposite side of the cardboard wall, in my no-bedroom apartment, I could hear Tom Selleck begging us to begin the day with Fukushima-infused fruit juice. Coating what remained of my teeth with fluoridated paste, and equally fluoridated water to wash it down, I cleansed away the remnants of my genetically-modified breakfast.
From there, I hit the road in search of further incarceration.
The corporate castle loomed in the distance ― complete with vampire bats encircling its spire, and motes doubling as speed bumps.
"Let's do the Wave, people! C'mon! Let's do the Wave!" the overzealous freak commanded the obsequious attendees in the dank basement of this megacorp mausoleum. Pleading to be enslaved, we followed suit, even though all we could think about was fucking, being fucked, doing drugs, laughing and taking trips.
It was a group interview, and we were allowing our dreams to be crushed by this fanatical Human Resource recruiter, due to a basic need to survive. If we didn't feign sycophancy, there was the looming possibility we'd die horrific deaths, starving in piss-filled gutters.
The last thing the recruiter, herself, wanted to do was the Wave, but here she was ― thanks to that necessity to keep food in her stomach ― faking exuberance over a primitive cheer. It was fuckin' disgusting, and I couldn't believe I'd been reduced to this.
When it came time to declare our personal hero, and why we admired them, I chose Bill Hicks. Noting the blank stares, I inquired if anybody in attendance knew who the late comedian was.
What ensued was the type of silence you'd expect to find if stone-cold deaf, suspended in a deprivation chamber.
Elucidating about Guillermo and his contributions to humanity, I could feel this particular enslavement slipping through my hands. By the time I hit The World is Like a Ride… monologue, I was shocked I hadn't been set on fire. When this "grown-up" version of follow-the-leader concluded, I commended myself for having worn a rubber whilst balls-deep in the beast.
People everywhere are selling their souls for "success." But "success" is constantly portrayed by some douche bag drinking $1,000,000 brandy that tastes like a pigeon's asshole.
"Success" is pretending you own a multi-million dollar home, even when an unfeeling bank can steal your mansion, should you fail to pay its blood money. All the while, you struggle to keep the castle in question by engaging in a "career" you hate that forces you to rape the resources of this planet, and kill off millions of your fellow humans in the process.
"Success" is killing your conscience to make your quota, by hawking the latest weapons systems to government, so they can decimate innocent people.
Everybody knows by now all businessmen are completely full of shit. Just the worst kind of low-life, criminal cocksuckers you could ever wanna run into. The fuckin' piece of shit business man.
And the proof of it […] is they don't even trust each other. They don't trust one another.
When a businessman sits down to negotiate a deal, the first thing he does is to automatically assume that the other guy is a complete lying prick who's trying to fuck him out of his money. So he's gotta do everything he can to fuck the other guy a little bit faster, and a little bit harder. And he's gotta do it with a big smile on his face. You know that big, bullshit businessman smile?
And if you're a customer, whoa! That's when you get the really big smile! Customer always gets a really big smile, as the businessman carefully positions himself directly behind the customer, and unzips his pants, and proceeds to "service" the account. […]
Now you know what they mean […] when they say, "We specialize in customer service."
Whoever coined the phrase "let the buyer beware" was probably bleeding from the asshole.
― George Carlin ******
****** https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VFl84lGveQs
In order to combat the anxiety generated by such a hideous existence, nearly everyone is drugged up.
If you want to understand a society, take a good look at the drugs it uses. And what can this tell you about American culture? Well, look at the drugs we use. Except for pharmaceutical poison, there are essentially only two drugs that Western civilization tolerates: Caffeine from Monday to Friday to energize you enough to make you a productive member of society, and alcohol from Friday to Monday to keep you too stupid to figure out the prison that you are living in.
― Bill Hicks *******
******* http://www.azquotes.com/quote/455364
We beat the shit out of ourselves to become "employed," yet none of us want to be. Clock-watching is a hobby as ubiquitous as taking a dump.
"I'm only here two more hours, and I can head home [to begin this vicious cycle over again, tomorrow]."
You're never free, and never will be, as long as you court this Panopticon that's designed to enslave you.
Shouldn't the long-term goal of any society be complete unemployment?
― Doug Stanhope ********
******** http://www.azquotes.com/quote/1439555
Of course! We strive to retire, and revere those who do early.
"You're only 32, and you're retired?! How'd you do it? What's your secret?!"
The sole reason we feel compelled to work is belief in our brainwashing from birth.
"You gotta stay in school, son, and get good grades, so you can get into college, so you can get a high-paying job, so you can become 'rich,' and 'successful,' and retire early."
Where, in the above, does helping humanity, bettering the situation for our kind, or repairing the damage we've done to this planet, come into play?
Moreover, if we're all stressing to retire, why the fuck are we working in the first place?! Why don't we just retire now, eradicate "work," and end our imprisonment?!
Because those at the top of this pyramid scheme would no longer remain at the top, if we refused to enslave ourselves for them.
"So, what's a Panopticon?"
It's a sick idea created in the 18th century by a dude named Jeremy Bentham. A Panopticon is a method by which one guard can surveil an entire prison. *********
********* https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Panopticon
In modern form, you create a circular penitentiary. The outer ring houses the cells, which face the center of the circle.
In the middle, you have the guard house ― high up, and manned by a sole sentry. Hence, this "screw" shack has a 360-degree, panoramic view of every cell, and every inmate. Pretty clever, huh?
"Yeah, but how can one guard ― stationed inside the guard house ― see all the prisoners at once? There's no way he can be at every point around his shack."
Correct. And he doesn't have to be. Here's where it gets disturbing.
You encircle the guard station with one-way glass. The "screw" inside can see out, but the incarcerates can't see in. As a result, the inmates have no idea whether the sentry is watching them, their fellow inmates, TV, or his nuts, as he jacks-off. They simply have to assume, at all times, they're the ones being observed by the guard.
Hence, their stress level is perpetually high, fearing they're constantly being surveilled. They're incentivized to refrain from breaking rules, or attempting to escape, since they're always concerned they're being viewed.
In contemporaneous society, we exist within a Panopticon ― the walls of which most of us fail to see.
Government is the guard shack in the center. It's from here we're perpetually reminded we're being scrutinized, and quite often are.
We have very little means by which we can determine if we're being watched, but bureaucracy keeps us enduringly fearful such is the case.
ROOM 641A
The State is, and always has been, the great single enemy of the human race, its liberty, happiness, and progress.
― Murray Rothbard *
* http://www.azquotes.com/quote/729517
One room.
One corporation.
One monumental loss of your privacy.
2003. Folsom Street. SBC Communications in San Francisco. The government worked hand–in–pants with AT&T to begin gathering every electronic correspondence you, or any other "American," makes.
How did all this go down?
Wikipedia defines telecommunications as:
the transmission of signs, signals, messages, words, writings, images and sounds or information of any nature by wire, radio, optical or other electromagnetic systems. **
** https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Telecommunication
AT&T is a telecommunications company. Thus, they have access to all the above generated by their clients. This means cell calls, texts, Twitters, Tweets and E-mails.
Let's backtrack. If you don't know by now "America" is nothing more than a pyramid scheme ― a corporation ― you're asleep. Without money, the "U.S." ― an ideology existing solely within our minds ― dies a quiet death. Take cash out of the equation, and there's nothing to fuel this bloodthirsty beast we're allowing to devour us.
Hence, when I speak of AT&T selling your privacy to the government, I'm being redundant, since AT&T ― and every other corporation ― is your government. Don't believe me?
Money's your God, isn't it? You worship it more than anything on the planet.
The proof is in the fact you kill yourself every day ― stressing, abusing your body and mind, and selling your soul ― to accumulate it. You can lie to me, but when you lie to yourself, it's called insanity. Money's your God, and I just proved it.
For the love of money
People will steal from their mother
For the love of money
People will rob their own brother
For the love of money
People can't even walk down the street […]
For the love of money
People will lie, Lord, they will cheat
For the love of money
People don't care who they hurt or beat
― Bulletboys ***
*** https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GqxaCG9PBOs
Take a look at any denomination of cash for the proof in writing: "In God We Trust." Enough fuckin' said.
Room 641A ― at 611 Folsom Street in San Francisco ― houses a morass of fiberoptic cables. To the best of my knowledge, there are no interior photos on the Internet of the space in question. However, one can surmise it's more boring, and perverse, in there than Bill Nye's jack-off fantasies.
Twenty-four by 48 feet, filled with surveillance equipment, used to spy on you. What's more, you're paying for this loss of your privacy!
You pay "taxes," don't you?
Then you're paying government to listen in on your admissions you're secretly gay, and love the smell of nuts that don't come in a Planters can.
You're paying government to gather info on your "foreign political" affiliations, that will be used against you in a hunt that makes the Salem witch trials feel like a toothless blow job.
You're paying government to blackmail you into doing exactly as it says, whenever it demands.
Room 641A. It's here beam splitters were installed on the cables in question. This refraction of light provided two signals. One went to AT&T; the other went to the government ― which, again, is AT&T ― so it could store your electronic correspondences, and spy on you whenever it wanted.
The whole AT&T being the government thing sounds similar to Christ being God, doesn't it? Creepy, but you've done it to yourself, by selling your soul for obvious bullshit. Some old guy in the sky, in a city where the streets are made of gold?! You think Santa Claus, Zeus and the Easter Bunny are ludicrous, yet somehow profess belief in that shit?!
To paraphrase Jordan Maxwell, get up off your fuckin' knees! Stop being subservient to anyone, and take your autonomy back!
For you technical folk reading along ― or for anybody finding this book wedged under a table leg, in order to keep it balanced ― there's a Narus STA 6400 in Room 641A. Ostensibly, this device is highly effective at capturing and categorizing Web discourse at rapid speed.
Mark Klein ― who worked for AT&T ― ratted out the monster corporation in 2006. ****
**** https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p1LXPqiaJdY
Of course, government held itself on trial in a class action suit on this one, and guess what?! Government found itself "not guilty," as it had done countless times before, in countless cases.
As such, government is now storing every electronic correspondence you've ever made, since 2003, and can listen to them whenever it chooses.
SOURCES:
ONLINE SOURCES:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Room_641A
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=agN7S5Siy1o
The State is, and always has been, the great single enemy of the human race, its liberty, happiness, and progress.
― Murray Rothbard *
* http://www.azquotes.com/quote/729517
One room.
One corporation.
One monumental loss of your privacy.
2003. Folsom Street. SBC Communications in San Francisco. The government worked hand–in–pants with AT&T to begin gathering every electronic correspondence you, or any other "American," makes.
How did all this go down?
Wikipedia defines telecommunications as:
the transmission of signs, signals, messages, words, writings, images and sounds or information of any nature by wire, radio, optical or other electromagnetic systems. **
** https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Telecommunication
AT&T is a telecommunications company. Thus, they have access to all the above generated by their clients. This means cell calls, texts, Twitters, Tweets and E-mails.
Let's backtrack. If you don't know by now "America" is nothing more than a pyramid scheme ― a corporation ― you're asleep. Without money, the "U.S." ― an ideology existing solely within our minds ― dies a quiet death. Take cash out of the equation, and there's nothing to fuel this bloodthirsty beast we're allowing to devour us.
Hence, when I speak of AT&T selling your privacy to the government, I'm being redundant, since AT&T ― and every other corporation ― is your government. Don't believe me?
Money's your God, isn't it? You worship it more than anything on the planet.
The proof is in the fact you kill yourself every day ― stressing, abusing your body and mind, and selling your soul ― to accumulate it. You can lie to me, but when you lie to yourself, it's called insanity. Money's your God, and I just proved it.
For the love of money
People will steal from their mother
For the love of money
People will rob their own brother
For the love of money
People can't even walk down the street […]
For the love of money
People will lie, Lord, they will cheat
For the love of money
People don't care who they hurt or beat
― Bulletboys ***
*** https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GqxaCG9PBOs
Take a look at any denomination of cash for the proof in writing: "In God We Trust." Enough fuckin' said.
Room 641A ― at 611 Folsom Street in San Francisco ― houses a morass of fiberoptic cables. To the best of my knowledge, there are no interior photos on the Internet of the space in question. However, one can surmise it's more boring, and perverse, in there than Bill Nye's jack-off fantasies.
Twenty-four by 48 feet, filled with surveillance equipment, used to spy on you. What's more, you're paying for this loss of your privacy!
You pay "taxes," don't you?
Then you're paying government to listen in on your admissions you're secretly gay, and love the smell of nuts that don't come in a Planters can.
You're paying government to gather info on your "foreign political" affiliations, that will be used against you in a hunt that makes the Salem witch trials feel like a toothless blow job.
You're paying government to blackmail you into doing exactly as it says, whenever it demands.
Room 641A. It's here beam splitters were installed on the cables in question. This refraction of light provided two signals. One went to AT&T; the other went to the government ― which, again, is AT&T ― so it could store your electronic correspondences, and spy on you whenever it wanted.
The whole AT&T being the government thing sounds similar to Christ being God, doesn't it? Creepy, but you've done it to yourself, by selling your soul for obvious bullshit. Some old guy in the sky, in a city where the streets are made of gold?! You think Santa Claus, Zeus and the Easter Bunny are ludicrous, yet somehow profess belief in that shit?!
To paraphrase Jordan Maxwell, get up off your fuckin' knees! Stop being subservient to anyone, and take your autonomy back!
For you technical folk reading along ― or for anybody finding this book wedged under a table leg, in order to keep it balanced ― there's a Narus STA 6400 in Room 641A. Ostensibly, this device is highly effective at capturing and categorizing Web discourse at rapid speed.
Mark Klein ― who worked for AT&T ― ratted out the monster corporation in 2006. ****
**** https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p1LXPqiaJdY
Of course, government held itself on trial in a class action suit on this one, and guess what?! Government found itself "not guilty," as it had done countless times before, in countless cases.
As such, government is now storing every electronic correspondence you've ever made, since 2003, and can listen to them whenever it chooses.
SOURCES:
ONLINE SOURCES:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Room_641A
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=agN7S5Siy1o
THE OVERVIEW EFFECT
Two things are Universal: Hydrogen and stupidity.
― Frank Zappa *
* http://www.azquotes.com/quote/1202265
If you entered the term "astronaut" in the "occupation" field of a "job" application, you'd be telling the truth. Each and every person on this planet is an astronaut.
Most shudder at the thought of traveling into space. "It's so cold and scary out there!" Yet, where do folks think they reside; some idyllic utopia, outside of space?!
If you've yet to eradicate the malware that's been uploaded into your brain, Earth is in space. Since you've resided on this planet your entire existence, you've been in space since your inception. That would make you an astronaut.
Gnaw on that gristle of reality, as…
The microscopic man stared through the diminutive window at the planet in his wake.
That was Earth; that was home.
A fat syringe of uncut truth pierced his eyeball, as he gazed at the endless Universe in the background. He wasn't even a flea in the overall spectrum.
This challenged everything he'd been brainwashed to believe. His "faith" in Christ was suddenly threatened. Given the enormity of what he was looking at, did it make sense what created all this was human?!
We're told Christ is God, and Christ obviously looks Homo sapien, but did that now seem logical, staring into the vastness? The prospect appeared damned arrogant, and the man trembled, as the sacerdotal ideology he'd placed his bets on collapsed.
The more you begin to investigate what we think we understand, where we came from, what we think we're doing, the more you begin to see we've been lied to. We've been lied to by every institution. What makes you think for one minute that the religious institution is the only one that's never been touched?
The religious institutions of this world are at the bottom of the dirt. The religious institutions in this world are put there by the same people who gave you your government, your corrupt education, who set up your international banking cartels.
We have been misled away from the true and divine presence in the Universe that men have called God. I don't know what God is, but I know what he isn't. And unless and until your are prepared to look at the whole truth — wherever it may go, whoever it may lead to — the more you educate yourself, the more you understand where things comes from, the more obvious things become, and you begin to see lies everywhere.
You have to know the truth, and seek the truth, and the truth will set you free.
― Jordan Maxwell **
** https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=34SiUXZxUWQ
The confining quarters of the capsule closed in on him, and his head spun like some fucked-up fairground ride engineered to make people puke. Not only had his religion been a lie, but so too had his belief in "America." From this vantage point, there was no fuckin' "America." In fact, there were no "countries" at all.
Strange. He had flown hundreds of planes, but had never made the connection, until now. From this distance, global unity was all there was, since he was able to see the entire globe. Aboard a plane, such wasn't so; he still gazed down upon a landscape spanning the horizon.
The surge of reality flooded his synapses, as the unwavering truth drowned his programmed mind. The frail human cogitated, alone in the dark void, "It's all been a lie, hasn't it?!"
The man's pallor drained, as reality hit hard. "Everything," the tiny Homo sapien ruminated. "All I am, and all I've ever been, has been a lie!"
"What's troubling you? You've seemed anxious, since returning to ― well, Earth."
The psychiatrist opened her laptop, and began typing. "Did something happen out there you'd like to discuss?"
The astronaut grimaced.
"William, you know our sessions are strictly confidential. You can tell me whatever you'd like, and I won't divulge a word of it to the media."
Struggling with the truth, the man ground his teeth like Folgers does coffee. "We should take that useless bullshit the government tells us is currency, recycle it into blank sheets of paper, and finally print something useful on it ― The Constitution of Humanity."
The woman glanced up from the monitor. "Have you been getting enough sleep?"
"Only, this Constitution isn't a contract. Nobody's 'bound' by it ― unlike the motherfuckin' U.S. Constitution―"
"You definitely need more sleep. I'm going to prescribe something that will help―"
"No, this is simply a 'thank you' note to the Earth―"
"A what?!"
"A 'thank you' note to the Earth."
"William, I know I'm not your regular psychiatrist, so I have to ask, 'Have you ever been diagnosed with depression?' "
"Thank you for being such a lenient landlord; putting up with our decimation of your idyllic property ― setting fire to it countless times; killing most of our neighbors; and shitting in the swimming pool the past 200 years of our lease―"
The woman snatched a conveniently placed bottle of pills, and began filling a prescription. "These are not over-the-counter, so the only place you can get them is right―"
The exhausted man grabbed her arm. "Are you even listening?!"
It's known as the Overview Effect, and it's that shock of reality astronauts feel when staring back at Earth from off planet. Our viewpoints tend to be myopic, due to our skies appearing blue, the Sun shining, and the fact we don't float away ― thanks to a lack of gravity.
As a result, most of us spend our entire existences never realizing we're in space.
Such being so, we're perpetually engaged in space travel. That means each and every one of us on this planet is an astronaut.
As R. Buckminster Fuller inculcated: We're aboard Spaceship Earth, traveling about this Solar System.
Since we're all astronauts, why do we feel it's necessary to wait for some corporate mascot ― garbed in a suit bedecked with "American" flags ― to leave Earth, and gaze back on it to experience the Overview Effect? These douche bags look like race car drivers ― in their stupid jumpsuits, sporting more logos than Times Square. Some of us didn't need to depart the planet, in order to realize "countries" don't exist, borders are an illusion, and we're all one.
SOURCES:
ONLINE SOURCES:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Overview_effect
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CHMIfOecrlo
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kpy1EH1KxbI
Two things are Universal: Hydrogen and stupidity.
― Frank Zappa *
* http://www.azquotes.com/quote/1202265
If you entered the term "astronaut" in the "occupation" field of a "job" application, you'd be telling the truth. Each and every person on this planet is an astronaut.
Most shudder at the thought of traveling into space. "It's so cold and scary out there!" Yet, where do folks think they reside; some idyllic utopia, outside of space?!
If you've yet to eradicate the malware that's been uploaded into your brain, Earth is in space. Since you've resided on this planet your entire existence, you've been in space since your inception. That would make you an astronaut.
Gnaw on that gristle of reality, as…
The microscopic man stared through the diminutive window at the planet in his wake.
That was Earth; that was home.
A fat syringe of uncut truth pierced his eyeball, as he gazed at the endless Universe in the background. He wasn't even a flea in the overall spectrum.
This challenged everything he'd been brainwashed to believe. His "faith" in Christ was suddenly threatened. Given the enormity of what he was looking at, did it make sense what created all this was human?!
We're told Christ is God, and Christ obviously looks Homo sapien, but did that now seem logical, staring into the vastness? The prospect appeared damned arrogant, and the man trembled, as the sacerdotal ideology he'd placed his bets on collapsed.
The more you begin to investigate what we think we understand, where we came from, what we think we're doing, the more you begin to see we've been lied to. We've been lied to by every institution. What makes you think for one minute that the religious institution is the only one that's never been touched?
The religious institutions of this world are at the bottom of the dirt. The religious institutions in this world are put there by the same people who gave you your government, your corrupt education, who set up your international banking cartels.
We have been misled away from the true and divine presence in the Universe that men have called God. I don't know what God is, but I know what he isn't. And unless and until your are prepared to look at the whole truth — wherever it may go, whoever it may lead to — the more you educate yourself, the more you understand where things comes from, the more obvious things become, and you begin to see lies everywhere.
You have to know the truth, and seek the truth, and the truth will set you free.
― Jordan Maxwell **
** https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=34SiUXZxUWQ
The confining quarters of the capsule closed in on him, and his head spun like some fucked-up fairground ride engineered to make people puke. Not only had his religion been a lie, but so too had his belief in "America." From this vantage point, there was no fuckin' "America." In fact, there were no "countries" at all.
Strange. He had flown hundreds of planes, but had never made the connection, until now. From this distance, global unity was all there was, since he was able to see the entire globe. Aboard a plane, such wasn't so; he still gazed down upon a landscape spanning the horizon.
The surge of reality flooded his synapses, as the unwavering truth drowned his programmed mind. The frail human cogitated, alone in the dark void, "It's all been a lie, hasn't it?!"
The man's pallor drained, as reality hit hard. "Everything," the tiny Homo sapien ruminated. "All I am, and all I've ever been, has been a lie!"
"What's troubling you? You've seemed anxious, since returning to ― well, Earth."
The psychiatrist opened her laptop, and began typing. "Did something happen out there you'd like to discuss?"
The astronaut grimaced.
"William, you know our sessions are strictly confidential. You can tell me whatever you'd like, and I won't divulge a word of it to the media."
Struggling with the truth, the man ground his teeth like Folgers does coffee. "We should take that useless bullshit the government tells us is currency, recycle it into blank sheets of paper, and finally print something useful on it ― The Constitution of Humanity."
The woman glanced up from the monitor. "Have you been getting enough sleep?"
"Only, this Constitution isn't a contract. Nobody's 'bound' by it ― unlike the motherfuckin' U.S. Constitution―"
"You definitely need more sleep. I'm going to prescribe something that will help―"
"No, this is simply a 'thank you' note to the Earth―"
"A what?!"
"A 'thank you' note to the Earth."
"William, I know I'm not your regular psychiatrist, so I have to ask, 'Have you ever been diagnosed with depression?' "
"Thank you for being such a lenient landlord; putting up with our decimation of your idyllic property ― setting fire to it countless times; killing most of our neighbors; and shitting in the swimming pool the past 200 years of our lease―"
The woman snatched a conveniently placed bottle of pills, and began filling a prescription. "These are not over-the-counter, so the only place you can get them is right―"
The exhausted man grabbed her arm. "Are you even listening?!"
It's known as the Overview Effect, and it's that shock of reality astronauts feel when staring back at Earth from off planet. Our viewpoints tend to be myopic, due to our skies appearing blue, the Sun shining, and the fact we don't float away ― thanks to a lack of gravity.
As a result, most of us spend our entire existences never realizing we're in space.
Such being so, we're perpetually engaged in space travel. That means each and every one of us on this planet is an astronaut.
As R. Buckminster Fuller inculcated: We're aboard Spaceship Earth, traveling about this Solar System.
Since we're all astronauts, why do we feel it's necessary to wait for some corporate mascot ― garbed in a suit bedecked with "American" flags ― to leave Earth, and gaze back on it to experience the Overview Effect? These douche bags look like race car drivers ― in their stupid jumpsuits, sporting more logos than Times Square. Some of us didn't need to depart the planet, in order to realize "countries" don't exist, borders are an illusion, and we're all one.
SOURCES:
ONLINE SOURCES:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Overview_effect
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CHMIfOecrlo
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kpy1EH1KxbI
THE SAN AUGUSTIN UFO CRASH
I closed on this thing that looked like a weather balloon, and that's what I'd presumed it was. And I had plenty of gas and time, so I just decided I'd just come back around and make a pass on it.
I got around where I should've been comin' back on this thing, all of a sudden it didn't look like a balloon anymore. It looked like a saucer sitting on edge; 'bout a 45 degree angle.
I didn't have any gun camera film on board, unfortunately, or I'd have shot some pictures of it.
And about that time I guess whatever it was, for whatever reasons, took off climbin' at about a 45 degree angle, and just accelerated and disappeared. I obviously couldn't follow it with an old piston engine fighter, so I turned around and went home.
― astronaut "Deke" Slayton *
* https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4E_SFwrh8wo
“What the fuck―?!” It was a phrase Barney Barnett had only used twice. Both other instances came in the heat of battle during World War I.
We’re talkin’ an upstanding member of his community; a person who toed the line without fail. A happily married guy who never shirked a church gathering nor Rotary meeting.
Barney wasn’t prone to lies. Especially lies regarding crashed UFOs and alien bodies strewn across the desert.
Still, here he found himself ― assiduous Soil Conservation Service stiff ― staring down at an immobilized flying saucer and it’s defunct crew.
Morning sunlight had reflected off the alloy vessel, catching Barney’s attention on the back roads of the Plains. Out here in no man’s land, anything manufactured stood out like an honest word from Harry Truman’s mouth, and Barnett knew it.
As his 1938 Ford truck approached the craft, the God-fearing American could see the downed occupants more clearly. From the ridge, the bodies appeared to be corpses. Although each had two arms, two legs and a head, they were too small to be fully-grown humans. Children, maybe, but not adults.
And what about those heads? Even though he was some distance away, the craniums dwarfed whatever pittance of a skull he boasted atop his neck.
Pulling to a dusty stop, Barney parked, and stared down at the wreckage.
An engineer, he’d been lauded for his ability to make expeditious and insightful decisions. Yet, here he sat, uncertain of his next move. As far as anyone else knew, he hadn’t seen anything, and could simply head back to Socorro and nobody would be the wiser.
The option was more tempting than a juicy rib eye and a side of hot, buttered green beans, but a part of Barney had to know. That part of him had caused him to become an amateur astronomer. That portion of the soil conservationist had demanded he invest $1.50 per year in The Sky ― a periodical for neophyte celestial enthusiasts.
Gripping the door handle on his worn vehicle, it was this adventurous side that assumed control. A lifetime of "doing the right thing" launched him from the cracked fabric seat of the truck and onto the chalky desert floor.
Sand clods exploded beneath Barney’s boots, as he strode toward the anomalies. Although it was mid-morning, it was hot enough in these parts to toast bread on a scorched outcropping. Sunbeams reflected off the dull, matte finish of the craft.
The first thing Barnett noticed was the lack of secondary wreckage. It appeared as if the vehicle had remained primarily intact.
The skintight clothing the creatures wore was of interest, as well. Barney had never seen its equal. This was 1947, and Spandex wouldn’t be invented until 1959.
Initially, the engineer thought the crash may have been a plane. At least that’s how it appeared from a distance. As he closed on the wreckage, he quickly realized this was no conventional craft, and the bodies before him weren’t human.
The downed vehicle was in the neighborhood of 25 to 30 feet in diameter. Barnett noted a rent in the craft. From it, spilled four carcasses. Two of the dead remained inside the vessel, while the others lay outside.
Judging by the lack of weathering to the cadavers, and the fact they hadn’t been scavenged by predators, the engineer deduced this wreck was fresh.
He hadn’t seen anything anomalous trailing from the sky while he’d been on the road. There were no dust trails in the craft’s wake. Hence, perhaps “fresh” in this case denoted a crash hours before.
Nobody else had happened upon the site, which wasn’t shocking since the Plains of San Augustin were 59 miles long, and up to 19 miles wide. Out here, you could easily crash something this large in the dead of night, and nobody would be the wiser.
A technical man, Barney was preoccupied with the vessel, although he kept what he prayed were corpses in his peripheral vision. A furious, resurrected alien was the last thing he needed.
The tiny, four-fingered creatures may have looked frail, but Barnett reasoned they were endowed with robust attributes enabling them to undergo interplanetary travel.
Extending a trembling hand toward the craft, he could feel residual heat emanating from the fuselage.
Two kangaroo rats scurried from a crop of prickly pear to Barney’s right, startling the normally calm man. Recoiling, Barnett composed himself, swept away the sea of sweat cascading down his brow, and returned to the task at hand.
In 1947, radioactive fallout was a new fear, but being a voracious reader, the engineer knew enough about it to realize it was a tangle of Devil’s Rope he wanted no part of. Curiosity had a hold of him, though, as his fingertips pressed firmly against the dirty metal.
Power was the first sensation. Although this vessel had apparently been downed for some time, did it continue to have a life of its own―?
“Is that what I think it is?!”
Barney startled at the sound of the voice, his heart skipping several beats.
“Holy shit! You were right!” A thin wire of a man stood at the far edge of the dry lake bed, while a second, more pudgy fellow ― garbed in similar attire ― followed close behind. Both were dressed for an extended stay in the elements. Shovels, shorts, knapsacks and wide-brimmed hats indicated they were on foot, and part of an expedition.
Astonished, the two men encircled the craft, gawking in awe. The initial interlopers were soon joined by two more individuals who were obviously part of their party. By all clues, archaeologists, Barnett surmised.
A brief exchange confirmed the engineer’s deduction, but was abruptly interrupted by an explosion of military vehicles cresting the ridge. Before the impromptu group had a chance to investigate further, they were run off by official-looking men wearing official-looking stripes. Barney and the others were admonished never to speak of what they had seen to anyone, lest they be prepared to face egregious consequences.
Unable to vacate the weathered region quickly enough in his retreat to Socorro, the event shook Barnett to the core.
“Bullshit!” Fleck Danley bellowed.
“Wh― What?” Barney managed to stammer in his excited state.
“You heard me!” barked the short, stout rancher doubling as Barnett’s boss at the Salado Soil and Conservation District. “Spaceships? Little, green men, Barney?!
Have you lost your mind?”
“Fleck, you’ve never known me to lie. Why would I start now, and with somethin’ like this?”
The gruff herdsman pulled a brimmed hat off his moist brow, and began to pace. Dilapidated floorboards groaned beneath his mass. “Christ, Barney, that’s what worries me.” Turning to his best employee, “Pie Town’s a long way off, and you been travelin’ there a stretch. Anywhere along the PSA ain’t exactly a trip to paradise. You ain’t sufferin’ from heat stroke, are ya’?” Danley grabbed a canteen from a coat rack behind him, handing it to Barney.
“No, Fleck. This isn’t heat stroke. You know me.”
The squat cowboy began to pace again. Three years shy of 40 and the lines in his forehead read like a road map. On this particular day they were so pronounced, they were visible by airplane...at night.
“I’m tellin’ ya’ what I saw. This wasn’t a plane, and these creatures ― they weren’t human.“
Danley crushed his powerful fist into the creaking oak desk, his eyes bloodier than a freshly-cleaved slab of beef. “Enough, Barney! Enough! This is the last we speak of this! You understand?”
The two men eyed each other. They’d nurtured a mutual respect over the time they’d spent together, and even an event of this magnitude wouldn’t be enough of a catalyst for fisticuffs. Resolute, Barney strode from the office. He’d seen what he’d seen. He knew it. So did Fleck.
It’s the type of story one never recounts over meatloaf at a dinner party. Folks aren’t keen to playing second fiddle in the galactic hierarchy, and that’s what it would mean if humans were being visited by aliens. Anything that could reach "here" from "there" can do with us what it may, and we’d be powerless to defend ourselves.
Should they be benevolent, it means the end of the tenets we’ve built our society on. Who’s gonna listen to the president of the United States, when you’ve got access to a species 10,000 years more advanced? Whatever the commander in chief had to say would be so far behind the eight ball, he’d have the cue stick up his ass.
It was an uncomfortable position for those who believed they were in power. Barney realized this via his heated conversation with Fleck. Barnett comprehended anyone in control ― especially the government ― would not take kindly to information leaks on this matter. They’d made that clear at the crash site.
As such, the engineer kept a lid on his otherworldly profundity. Over the years, he would inform a few others of what he’d witnessed, but those he told were almost always long-time acquaintances.
Friends Vern and Jean Maltais ― the former an Air Force master sergeant ― would be included on that list. So would Harold and Martha Baca ― neighbors of Barney and his wife Ruth. A handful of others would be made privy to this secret Barney carried with him to his death in 1969.
Oddly, William Leed ― a man Barney had known for 15 minutes ― managed to coax details regarding his purported paranormal experience. Leed was a first lieutenant who engaged a prestigious officer in banter about UFOs one day at the Pentagon.
“Yes,” the official had stated, “we know all about that. If you really want to meet a man who touched one [a UFO], go see Barney Barnett in Socorro, New Mexico.”
It was never understood how this high-ranking officer was aware of the conservationist’s encounter with the unknown. The incident, nonetheless, inspired Leed to head to the Land of Enchantment as soon as he’d accumulated enough vacation time.
Driving from Ft. Hood, near central Texas, to Socorro, roughly central New Mexico, was a journey in 1967. Bill made the trek in decent time, but hadn’t been sure Barney would be home. Leed had never spoken to Barnett, and didn’t feel announcing his imminent arrival would warrant the best of receptions.
Hence, when Bill was greeted by an elderly man at his home in small town New Mexico, and invited in, he was pleasantly shocked.
Leed produced identification confirming he was who he asserted. The men spoke for 15 minutes. Less than half that interim was spent discussing Barney’s crash discovery. Barnett held firm to his story, asserting what he’d seen was in no way a fabrication.
Initially, Barney was hesitant to divulge details, since he’d been visited three times prior by government representatives warning him not to speak of his experience. When all was said and done, Leed failed to question Barnett regarding alien bodies. This may sound strange, but the first lieutenant hadn’t been aware of extraterrestrial corpses until Roswell grabbed public attention in the '80s.
Archaeologists working in the Plains during that time were tracked down by ufologists, and interviewed. One minute the prehistorians would affirm a story, only to be disproved the next, via incriminating letters they wrote, themselves. In the end, none claimed to have observed anything alien on the PSA that early July, 1947.
“That ain’t no part of no cow,” grumbled the livestock inspector, turning the enigmatic object over in his leathery hands.
“That ain’t no part of anything I ever seen,” added his counterpart.
Outside the greasy spoon at Datil’s Eagle Guest Ranch, the temperature dropped with the onset of night in New Mexico.
“Where’d ya’ find it?” queried the shorter of the two men.
“Down the road a piece in an arroyo leading onto the Plains,” Art responded.
As the three hombres mused over the object that resembled a petrified inner organ, twin salads the size of small gardens arrived, and the need for grub won out. “Sorry, podna'. We can’t help ya’.” The artifact was returned to the UFO investigator, and Art was again on his own.
Being a ufologist, since reading Frank Scully’s Behind the Flying Saucers in 1952, Art Campbell was the perfect candidate to probe an alleged UFO crash in 1947 New Mexico. Because Roswell remained salient, when envisioning a downed spacecraft with these details, a separate event around the same time enticed Campbell.
Art had been an investigator for NICAP ― National Investigations Committee on Aerial Phenomena ― and a prominent debunker of purported UFO contactee George Adamski.
Amidst an arroyo, on the Plains of San Augustin, Campbell hit pay dirt. Whatever it was had been exposed to severe heat, and now partially hidden beneath scrub brush. As Campbell described, it “looked like a pile of solidified chicken fat.” His discovery was roughly the size of an adult human fist ― burnt on one side, and melted on the other.
Art was acquainted with Colonel Philip Corso’s claims extraterrestrials were outfitted with artificial organs, to survive interstellar travel. Could he have uncovered an example of alien innards?
Campbell had the object analyzed by scientists adept at determining material compositions. It was concluded the artifact was primarily constructed of HDPE ― high density polyethylene. This substance is used in the production of Tupperware.
Curiously, a number of copper and gold wires ― far thinner than human hair ― were embedded in the find. These strands were oft connected to what appeared to be electronic components.
Allegedly having insider access to alien autopsies from previous crash sites, Philip Corso’s assertions fueled Art's fire. According to the colonel, brains of otherworldly travelers were laced with integrated circuits. Could Art have, in his possession, an extraterrestrial cerebrum?
Campbell's excavation of the Plains of San Augustin also revealed intriguing metal samples ― one, a bizarre honeycomb alloy, and a few others of ultra-light design. Art purports analysis of these metals revealed isotopes not previously found on Earth. Lab results, regarding these artifacts, is published in a 42 page report on his Website ― a link to which is featured below.
Conjecture runs deep here, but it’s the type of tale that’ll keep you awake at night, poring over it’s particulars in a squalid motel room in the middle of nowhere. A cask of rotgut, bedbugs keeping you company, and a Moon lucent enough to read by, good luck getting much sleep delving into this one.
SOURCES:
BOOKS:
Campbell, Art. (2013). Finding the UFO Crash at San Augustin: Isotopic Metal Analysis Not of This World. CreateSpace. ISBN: 9781491221945
ONLINE SOURCES:
http://www.ufocrashbook.com/
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NP2jXGGYb0s
I closed on this thing that looked like a weather balloon, and that's what I'd presumed it was. And I had plenty of gas and time, so I just decided I'd just come back around and make a pass on it.
I got around where I should've been comin' back on this thing, all of a sudden it didn't look like a balloon anymore. It looked like a saucer sitting on edge; 'bout a 45 degree angle.
I didn't have any gun camera film on board, unfortunately, or I'd have shot some pictures of it.
And about that time I guess whatever it was, for whatever reasons, took off climbin' at about a 45 degree angle, and just accelerated and disappeared. I obviously couldn't follow it with an old piston engine fighter, so I turned around and went home.
― astronaut "Deke" Slayton *
* https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4E_SFwrh8wo
“What the fuck―?!” It was a phrase Barney Barnett had only used twice. Both other instances came in the heat of battle during World War I.
We’re talkin’ an upstanding member of his community; a person who toed the line without fail. A happily married guy who never shirked a church gathering nor Rotary meeting.
Barney wasn’t prone to lies. Especially lies regarding crashed UFOs and alien bodies strewn across the desert.
Still, here he found himself ― assiduous Soil Conservation Service stiff ― staring down at an immobilized flying saucer and it’s defunct crew.
Morning sunlight had reflected off the alloy vessel, catching Barney’s attention on the back roads of the Plains. Out here in no man’s land, anything manufactured stood out like an honest word from Harry Truman’s mouth, and Barnett knew it.
As his 1938 Ford truck approached the craft, the God-fearing American could see the downed occupants more clearly. From the ridge, the bodies appeared to be corpses. Although each had two arms, two legs and a head, they were too small to be fully-grown humans. Children, maybe, but not adults.
And what about those heads? Even though he was some distance away, the craniums dwarfed whatever pittance of a skull he boasted atop his neck.
Pulling to a dusty stop, Barney parked, and stared down at the wreckage.
An engineer, he’d been lauded for his ability to make expeditious and insightful decisions. Yet, here he sat, uncertain of his next move. As far as anyone else knew, he hadn’t seen anything, and could simply head back to Socorro and nobody would be the wiser.
The option was more tempting than a juicy rib eye and a side of hot, buttered green beans, but a part of Barney had to know. That part of him had caused him to become an amateur astronomer. That portion of the soil conservationist had demanded he invest $1.50 per year in The Sky ― a periodical for neophyte celestial enthusiasts.
Gripping the door handle on his worn vehicle, it was this adventurous side that assumed control. A lifetime of "doing the right thing" launched him from the cracked fabric seat of the truck and onto the chalky desert floor.
Sand clods exploded beneath Barney’s boots, as he strode toward the anomalies. Although it was mid-morning, it was hot enough in these parts to toast bread on a scorched outcropping. Sunbeams reflected off the dull, matte finish of the craft.
The first thing Barnett noticed was the lack of secondary wreckage. It appeared as if the vehicle had remained primarily intact.
The skintight clothing the creatures wore was of interest, as well. Barney had never seen its equal. This was 1947, and Spandex wouldn’t be invented until 1959.
Initially, the engineer thought the crash may have been a plane. At least that’s how it appeared from a distance. As he closed on the wreckage, he quickly realized this was no conventional craft, and the bodies before him weren’t human.
The downed vehicle was in the neighborhood of 25 to 30 feet in diameter. Barnett noted a rent in the craft. From it, spilled four carcasses. Two of the dead remained inside the vessel, while the others lay outside.
Judging by the lack of weathering to the cadavers, and the fact they hadn’t been scavenged by predators, the engineer deduced this wreck was fresh.
He hadn’t seen anything anomalous trailing from the sky while he’d been on the road. There were no dust trails in the craft’s wake. Hence, perhaps “fresh” in this case denoted a crash hours before.
Nobody else had happened upon the site, which wasn’t shocking since the Plains of San Augustin were 59 miles long, and up to 19 miles wide. Out here, you could easily crash something this large in the dead of night, and nobody would be the wiser.
A technical man, Barney was preoccupied with the vessel, although he kept what he prayed were corpses in his peripheral vision. A furious, resurrected alien was the last thing he needed.
The tiny, four-fingered creatures may have looked frail, but Barnett reasoned they were endowed with robust attributes enabling them to undergo interplanetary travel.
Extending a trembling hand toward the craft, he could feel residual heat emanating from the fuselage.
Two kangaroo rats scurried from a crop of prickly pear to Barney’s right, startling the normally calm man. Recoiling, Barnett composed himself, swept away the sea of sweat cascading down his brow, and returned to the task at hand.
In 1947, radioactive fallout was a new fear, but being a voracious reader, the engineer knew enough about it to realize it was a tangle of Devil’s Rope he wanted no part of. Curiosity had a hold of him, though, as his fingertips pressed firmly against the dirty metal.
Power was the first sensation. Although this vessel had apparently been downed for some time, did it continue to have a life of its own―?
“Is that what I think it is?!”
Barney startled at the sound of the voice, his heart skipping several beats.
“Holy shit! You were right!” A thin wire of a man stood at the far edge of the dry lake bed, while a second, more pudgy fellow ― garbed in similar attire ― followed close behind. Both were dressed for an extended stay in the elements. Shovels, shorts, knapsacks and wide-brimmed hats indicated they were on foot, and part of an expedition.
Astonished, the two men encircled the craft, gawking in awe. The initial interlopers were soon joined by two more individuals who were obviously part of their party. By all clues, archaeologists, Barnett surmised.
A brief exchange confirmed the engineer’s deduction, but was abruptly interrupted by an explosion of military vehicles cresting the ridge. Before the impromptu group had a chance to investigate further, they were run off by official-looking men wearing official-looking stripes. Barney and the others were admonished never to speak of what they had seen to anyone, lest they be prepared to face egregious consequences.
Unable to vacate the weathered region quickly enough in his retreat to Socorro, the event shook Barnett to the core.
“Bullshit!” Fleck Danley bellowed.
“Wh― What?” Barney managed to stammer in his excited state.
“You heard me!” barked the short, stout rancher doubling as Barnett’s boss at the Salado Soil and Conservation District. “Spaceships? Little, green men, Barney?!
Have you lost your mind?”
“Fleck, you’ve never known me to lie. Why would I start now, and with somethin’ like this?”
The gruff herdsman pulled a brimmed hat off his moist brow, and began to pace. Dilapidated floorboards groaned beneath his mass. “Christ, Barney, that’s what worries me.” Turning to his best employee, “Pie Town’s a long way off, and you been travelin’ there a stretch. Anywhere along the PSA ain’t exactly a trip to paradise. You ain’t sufferin’ from heat stroke, are ya’?” Danley grabbed a canteen from a coat rack behind him, handing it to Barney.
“No, Fleck. This isn’t heat stroke. You know me.”
The squat cowboy began to pace again. Three years shy of 40 and the lines in his forehead read like a road map. On this particular day they were so pronounced, they were visible by airplane...at night.
“I’m tellin’ ya’ what I saw. This wasn’t a plane, and these creatures ― they weren’t human.“
Danley crushed his powerful fist into the creaking oak desk, his eyes bloodier than a freshly-cleaved slab of beef. “Enough, Barney! Enough! This is the last we speak of this! You understand?”
The two men eyed each other. They’d nurtured a mutual respect over the time they’d spent together, and even an event of this magnitude wouldn’t be enough of a catalyst for fisticuffs. Resolute, Barney strode from the office. He’d seen what he’d seen. He knew it. So did Fleck.
It’s the type of story one never recounts over meatloaf at a dinner party. Folks aren’t keen to playing second fiddle in the galactic hierarchy, and that’s what it would mean if humans were being visited by aliens. Anything that could reach "here" from "there" can do with us what it may, and we’d be powerless to defend ourselves.
Should they be benevolent, it means the end of the tenets we’ve built our society on. Who’s gonna listen to the president of the United States, when you’ve got access to a species 10,000 years more advanced? Whatever the commander in chief had to say would be so far behind the eight ball, he’d have the cue stick up his ass.
It was an uncomfortable position for those who believed they were in power. Barney realized this via his heated conversation with Fleck. Barnett comprehended anyone in control ― especially the government ― would not take kindly to information leaks on this matter. They’d made that clear at the crash site.
As such, the engineer kept a lid on his otherworldly profundity. Over the years, he would inform a few others of what he’d witnessed, but those he told were almost always long-time acquaintances.
Friends Vern and Jean Maltais ― the former an Air Force master sergeant ― would be included on that list. So would Harold and Martha Baca ― neighbors of Barney and his wife Ruth. A handful of others would be made privy to this secret Barney carried with him to his death in 1969.
Oddly, William Leed ― a man Barney had known for 15 minutes ― managed to coax details regarding his purported paranormal experience. Leed was a first lieutenant who engaged a prestigious officer in banter about UFOs one day at the Pentagon.
“Yes,” the official had stated, “we know all about that. If you really want to meet a man who touched one [a UFO], go see Barney Barnett in Socorro, New Mexico.”
It was never understood how this high-ranking officer was aware of the conservationist’s encounter with the unknown. The incident, nonetheless, inspired Leed to head to the Land of Enchantment as soon as he’d accumulated enough vacation time.
Driving from Ft. Hood, near central Texas, to Socorro, roughly central New Mexico, was a journey in 1967. Bill made the trek in decent time, but hadn’t been sure Barney would be home. Leed had never spoken to Barnett, and didn’t feel announcing his imminent arrival would warrant the best of receptions.
Hence, when Bill was greeted by an elderly man at his home in small town New Mexico, and invited in, he was pleasantly shocked.
Leed produced identification confirming he was who he asserted. The men spoke for 15 minutes. Less than half that interim was spent discussing Barney’s crash discovery. Barnett held firm to his story, asserting what he’d seen was in no way a fabrication.
Initially, Barney was hesitant to divulge details, since he’d been visited three times prior by government representatives warning him not to speak of his experience. When all was said and done, Leed failed to question Barnett regarding alien bodies. This may sound strange, but the first lieutenant hadn’t been aware of extraterrestrial corpses until Roswell grabbed public attention in the '80s.
Archaeologists working in the Plains during that time were tracked down by ufologists, and interviewed. One minute the prehistorians would affirm a story, only to be disproved the next, via incriminating letters they wrote, themselves. In the end, none claimed to have observed anything alien on the PSA that early July, 1947.
“That ain’t no part of no cow,” grumbled the livestock inspector, turning the enigmatic object over in his leathery hands.
“That ain’t no part of anything I ever seen,” added his counterpart.
Outside the greasy spoon at Datil’s Eagle Guest Ranch, the temperature dropped with the onset of night in New Mexico.
“Where’d ya’ find it?” queried the shorter of the two men.
“Down the road a piece in an arroyo leading onto the Plains,” Art responded.
As the three hombres mused over the object that resembled a petrified inner organ, twin salads the size of small gardens arrived, and the need for grub won out. “Sorry, podna'. We can’t help ya’.” The artifact was returned to the UFO investigator, and Art was again on his own.
Being a ufologist, since reading Frank Scully’s Behind the Flying Saucers in 1952, Art Campbell was the perfect candidate to probe an alleged UFO crash in 1947 New Mexico. Because Roswell remained salient, when envisioning a downed spacecraft with these details, a separate event around the same time enticed Campbell.
Art had been an investigator for NICAP ― National Investigations Committee on Aerial Phenomena ― and a prominent debunker of purported UFO contactee George Adamski.
Amidst an arroyo, on the Plains of San Augustin, Campbell hit pay dirt. Whatever it was had been exposed to severe heat, and now partially hidden beneath scrub brush. As Campbell described, it “looked like a pile of solidified chicken fat.” His discovery was roughly the size of an adult human fist ― burnt on one side, and melted on the other.
Art was acquainted with Colonel Philip Corso’s claims extraterrestrials were outfitted with artificial organs, to survive interstellar travel. Could he have uncovered an example of alien innards?
Campbell had the object analyzed by scientists adept at determining material compositions. It was concluded the artifact was primarily constructed of HDPE ― high density polyethylene. This substance is used in the production of Tupperware.
Curiously, a number of copper and gold wires ― far thinner than human hair ― were embedded in the find. These strands were oft connected to what appeared to be electronic components.
Allegedly having insider access to alien autopsies from previous crash sites, Philip Corso’s assertions fueled Art's fire. According to the colonel, brains of otherworldly travelers were laced with integrated circuits. Could Art have, in his possession, an extraterrestrial cerebrum?
Campbell's excavation of the Plains of San Augustin also revealed intriguing metal samples ― one, a bizarre honeycomb alloy, and a few others of ultra-light design. Art purports analysis of these metals revealed isotopes not previously found on Earth. Lab results, regarding these artifacts, is published in a 42 page report on his Website ― a link to which is featured below.
Conjecture runs deep here, but it’s the type of tale that’ll keep you awake at night, poring over it’s particulars in a squalid motel room in the middle of nowhere. A cask of rotgut, bedbugs keeping you company, and a Moon lucent enough to read by, good luck getting much sleep delving into this one.
SOURCES:
BOOKS:
Campbell, Art. (2013). Finding the UFO Crash at San Augustin: Isotopic Metal Analysis Not of This World. CreateSpace. ISBN: 9781491221945
ONLINE SOURCES:
http://www.ufocrashbook.com/
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NP2jXGGYb0s
THE INTEGRATRON
During Air France Flight 3532 from Nice to London on 28 January 1994, I observed, with my crew, a UFO in broad daylight near Paris. […]
It seemed to be a huge, flying disk. It stabilized and stopped moving. […]
It was about 1,000 feet wide. […]
The most incredible aspect is that it became transparent, and disappeared in about 10 to 20 seconds.
― Air France captain Jean-Charles Duboc *
* https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sfPMzj4IgSQ
A fire hose doubling as a snake slithered across arid soil, a tarantula the size of a catcher’s mitt in its jaws. The Moon illuminated the desert as brightly as the midday Sun. Awake, Van Tassel pondered what had caused him to wrestle from slumber. Whatever it was had been of serious importance.
The ex-engineer and test pilot figured the time was somewhere near 2AM. The dogs hadn’t alerted him to anything unusual, and yet George knew someone in the night was headed his way.
From the phosphorescent shapes comprising the hypnagogic landscape, a figure emerged.
Through the fog of sleep, Van Tassel found it difficult to piece together what was taking place. Living in a removed locale, George wondered if the stranger was having car trouble and required assistance. It was then Van Tassel spied the UFO “glowing” in the distance as it hovered 10 feet above the desert floor.
The anthropomorphic entity approaching George stated, “My name is Solgonda. I would be pleased to show you our craft,” motioning to the radiating ship behind him.
Van Tassel awoke drenched in sweat. He’d had a nightmare. It was a vision actually, one of the visitors from space had implanted within his capable cranium.
Previously an employee of Douglas Aircraft, Hughes Aviation and Lockheed, George had spent an ample portion of his life repairing, engineering and testing planes. He wasn’t the type to believe in beings from other planets, and yet here they were ― extraterrestrials making contact with him in the California desert. Not only had an exchange occurred, but George himself had toured an alien spacecraft.
The year was 1953, and George Van Tassel had moved his family from Santa Monica, California, to a desert region in the Golden State known as Giant Rock. Besides desolation, there was nothing surrounding one of the world’s largest freestanding boulders. The massive stone didn’t even exist in a legitimate town.
Still, George felt compelled to make the migration. His family had vacationed in these parts for years. In addition, his friend Frank Critzer had excavated a dwelling beneath the seven story tall boulder that served as the perfect habitat.
Due to the positioning of the rock, the temperature of the home never climbed above 80 degrees in the summer, and never dipped below 55 during the winter. The monumental stone shaded the house during the warmer season, thereby collecting heat to warm the underground home in colder months.
Thanks to agreeable temperatures, George and his family slept outdoors three quarters of the year. It was during this interim Van Tassel experienced his initial encounter with interplanetary travelers, and was led into a “butter colored” luminance beneath a floating UFO.
Through this light, he was allegedly transported into the craft and shown technology well in advance of that known to humanity. Those piloting the vessel informed George he had been appointed to disseminate a communique of cosmic harmony from the fraternal Universe.
The visit inspired Van Tassel to author and circulate The Proceedings of the College of Universal Wisdom ― a journal promulgating messages inculcated by George’s alien emissaries.
Believers of the former pilot’s experiences began sending contributions, so Van Tassel could build an edifice in the desert. George was apprised by his extraterrestrial confidants it was imperative he erect what became known as the Integratron ― a dome-shaped building made completely of wood. According to tale, when finished, this device would regenerate those who entered it, slowing the aging process, and turning back the years.
The structure now stands 38 feet tall, at its peak, and 55 feet in diameter, at its base. Even though the dwelling was erected without metal nails, it’s survived the elements for over half a century.
Although the contraption appears complete, it’s reported Van Tassel died before he could finish it. Since he departed without bequeathing blueprints, no one is certain what’s required to bring the edifice to culmination. Hence, we may never know if the building is capable of extending human life.
In addition to its revitalizing powers, George purported the Integratron was a time machine, able to access events throughout history.
But the Integratron wasn’t the only impact George made. Between 1953 and 1977, Van Tassel coordinated the Giant Rock Spacecraft Conventions. During these retreats, those in attendance were provided the latest news from the extraterrestrial forefront.
Van Tassel also rebuilt Giant Rock Airport ― a landing strip constructed by his friend Frank Critzer ― adjacent the 5,800 square foot boulder of the same name. At the base of Giant Rock stood George’s diner ― The Come On Inn ― where visitors could grab a home-cooked meal.
In time, Giant Rock, the Integratron and the UFO conventions lost their allure. With the waning of support, so too came an abatement of funding for George’s personal quest. As such, construction of the famous domed building ― which continued for 18 years ― subsided. In 1978, less than a year following the final Spacecraft Convention, George would be dead ― victim of a heart attack in Santa Ana, California.
Cost of legal obligations, and maintenance of the building, forced Eva Van Tassel ― George’s widow ― to sell the property. Plans were made to transform the Integratron into a disco. Eventually, however, it was determined people would be hesitant to travel to the middle of nowhere to listen to a recording of Andy Gibb squealing in pants eight sizes too small.
As such, the structure was purchased by a group of Van Tassel devotees and locked up until 1987.
Currently, Joanne, Nancy and Patty Karl ― siblings ― own the pseudo-famous edifice, and reside on the property.
Renovation of the weakened boards comprising the building have given it new life. Until the sisters figure out how to complete Van Tassel’s monument to the metaphysical, they’re happy to offer tours for a fee. The construction can also be rented out for special events.
Perhaps the most intriguing use of the Integratron are the sound baths provided visitors. For a price, one can hang out in a comfy chair, while crystal bowls around them resonate a spooky serenade. Due to the fact a person can whisper anywhere in the Integratron, and be heard elsewhere in the building, acoustics of this structure were deemed perfect for this type of transcendental experience.
A cleansing of the soul? An aligning of chakras? Whatever they are, sound baths seem a great modality for accumulating money.
The Integratron can be a wonderful venue for personal introspection. Perhaps it’s still an opportune vantage point from which to observe otherworldly craft. One may never know, unless one fires up the ol’ family truckster and blazes a trail into the Mojave Desert.
In 2000, a psychic reading at Giant Rock presaged one of two ancient Hopi myths would become reality. According to the lore of the aforementioned tribe, if the boulder cracked in half, it signified a disappointed Earth Mother who would refuse to answer humankind’s prayers. If a less substantial portion of the rock should fissure, however, man’s pleas would be accepted, and a new epoch would emerge.
Although Giant Rock had remained steadfast for eons, approximately one-third of the natural monument cracked and fell away the following morning.
SOURCES:
ONLINE SOURCES:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Integratron
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NLPgz9K4D20
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hMwJ-jxUcWs
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-RHlaiAdpCs
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qq_viSR2Yhs
https://integratron.com/
During Air France Flight 3532 from Nice to London on 28 January 1994, I observed, with my crew, a UFO in broad daylight near Paris. […]
It seemed to be a huge, flying disk. It stabilized and stopped moving. […]
It was about 1,000 feet wide. […]
The most incredible aspect is that it became transparent, and disappeared in about 10 to 20 seconds.
― Air France captain Jean-Charles Duboc *
* https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sfPMzj4IgSQ
A fire hose doubling as a snake slithered across arid soil, a tarantula the size of a catcher’s mitt in its jaws. The Moon illuminated the desert as brightly as the midday Sun. Awake, Van Tassel pondered what had caused him to wrestle from slumber. Whatever it was had been of serious importance.
The ex-engineer and test pilot figured the time was somewhere near 2AM. The dogs hadn’t alerted him to anything unusual, and yet George knew someone in the night was headed his way.
From the phosphorescent shapes comprising the hypnagogic landscape, a figure emerged.
Through the fog of sleep, Van Tassel found it difficult to piece together what was taking place. Living in a removed locale, George wondered if the stranger was having car trouble and required assistance. It was then Van Tassel spied the UFO “glowing” in the distance as it hovered 10 feet above the desert floor.
The anthropomorphic entity approaching George stated, “My name is Solgonda. I would be pleased to show you our craft,” motioning to the radiating ship behind him.
Van Tassel awoke drenched in sweat. He’d had a nightmare. It was a vision actually, one of the visitors from space had implanted within his capable cranium.
Previously an employee of Douglas Aircraft, Hughes Aviation and Lockheed, George had spent an ample portion of his life repairing, engineering and testing planes. He wasn’t the type to believe in beings from other planets, and yet here they were ― extraterrestrials making contact with him in the California desert. Not only had an exchange occurred, but George himself had toured an alien spacecraft.
The year was 1953, and George Van Tassel had moved his family from Santa Monica, California, to a desert region in the Golden State known as Giant Rock. Besides desolation, there was nothing surrounding one of the world’s largest freestanding boulders. The massive stone didn’t even exist in a legitimate town.
Still, George felt compelled to make the migration. His family had vacationed in these parts for years. In addition, his friend Frank Critzer had excavated a dwelling beneath the seven story tall boulder that served as the perfect habitat.
Due to the positioning of the rock, the temperature of the home never climbed above 80 degrees in the summer, and never dipped below 55 during the winter. The monumental stone shaded the house during the warmer season, thereby collecting heat to warm the underground home in colder months.
Thanks to agreeable temperatures, George and his family slept outdoors three quarters of the year. It was during this interim Van Tassel experienced his initial encounter with interplanetary travelers, and was led into a “butter colored” luminance beneath a floating UFO.
Through this light, he was allegedly transported into the craft and shown technology well in advance of that known to humanity. Those piloting the vessel informed George he had been appointed to disseminate a communique of cosmic harmony from the fraternal Universe.
The visit inspired Van Tassel to author and circulate The Proceedings of the College of Universal Wisdom ― a journal promulgating messages inculcated by George’s alien emissaries.
Believers of the former pilot’s experiences began sending contributions, so Van Tassel could build an edifice in the desert. George was apprised by his extraterrestrial confidants it was imperative he erect what became known as the Integratron ― a dome-shaped building made completely of wood. According to tale, when finished, this device would regenerate those who entered it, slowing the aging process, and turning back the years.
The structure now stands 38 feet tall, at its peak, and 55 feet in diameter, at its base. Even though the dwelling was erected without metal nails, it’s survived the elements for over half a century.
Although the contraption appears complete, it’s reported Van Tassel died before he could finish it. Since he departed without bequeathing blueprints, no one is certain what’s required to bring the edifice to culmination. Hence, we may never know if the building is capable of extending human life.
In addition to its revitalizing powers, George purported the Integratron was a time machine, able to access events throughout history.
But the Integratron wasn’t the only impact George made. Between 1953 and 1977, Van Tassel coordinated the Giant Rock Spacecraft Conventions. During these retreats, those in attendance were provided the latest news from the extraterrestrial forefront.
Van Tassel also rebuilt Giant Rock Airport ― a landing strip constructed by his friend Frank Critzer ― adjacent the 5,800 square foot boulder of the same name. At the base of Giant Rock stood George’s diner ― The Come On Inn ― where visitors could grab a home-cooked meal.
In time, Giant Rock, the Integratron and the UFO conventions lost their allure. With the waning of support, so too came an abatement of funding for George’s personal quest. As such, construction of the famous domed building ― which continued for 18 years ― subsided. In 1978, less than a year following the final Spacecraft Convention, George would be dead ― victim of a heart attack in Santa Ana, California.
Cost of legal obligations, and maintenance of the building, forced Eva Van Tassel ― George’s widow ― to sell the property. Plans were made to transform the Integratron into a disco. Eventually, however, it was determined people would be hesitant to travel to the middle of nowhere to listen to a recording of Andy Gibb squealing in pants eight sizes too small.
As such, the structure was purchased by a group of Van Tassel devotees and locked up until 1987.
Currently, Joanne, Nancy and Patty Karl ― siblings ― own the pseudo-famous edifice, and reside on the property.
Renovation of the weakened boards comprising the building have given it new life. Until the sisters figure out how to complete Van Tassel’s monument to the metaphysical, they’re happy to offer tours for a fee. The construction can also be rented out for special events.
Perhaps the most intriguing use of the Integratron are the sound baths provided visitors. For a price, one can hang out in a comfy chair, while crystal bowls around them resonate a spooky serenade. Due to the fact a person can whisper anywhere in the Integratron, and be heard elsewhere in the building, acoustics of this structure were deemed perfect for this type of transcendental experience.
A cleansing of the soul? An aligning of chakras? Whatever they are, sound baths seem a great modality for accumulating money.
The Integratron can be a wonderful venue for personal introspection. Perhaps it’s still an opportune vantage point from which to observe otherworldly craft. One may never know, unless one fires up the ol’ family truckster and blazes a trail into the Mojave Desert.
In 2000, a psychic reading at Giant Rock presaged one of two ancient Hopi myths would become reality. According to the lore of the aforementioned tribe, if the boulder cracked in half, it signified a disappointed Earth Mother who would refuse to answer humankind’s prayers. If a less substantial portion of the rock should fissure, however, man’s pleas would be accepted, and a new epoch would emerge.
Although Giant Rock had remained steadfast for eons, approximately one-third of the natural monument cracked and fell away the following morning.
SOURCES:
ONLINE SOURCES:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Integratron
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NLPgz9K4D20
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hMwJ-jxUcWs
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-RHlaiAdpCs
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qq_viSR2Yhs
https://integratron.com/
DAUPHIN
Quite an experience to live in fear, isn't it? That's what it is to be a slave.
― Blade Runner *
* https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=orlfh1JuHwg
"Wow! You really like to work," exclaimed the cookie-cutter manager. You've never missed a shift," the woman smiled, delusional, myopic and brainwashed to the point of extreme mental illness.
I grinned, asking myself, "Did this indoctrinated idiot really believe I wanted to work? Could she seriously be that insane she thought I hungered to be enslaved?!
Of course I wasn't desirous of working. I wanted to go to fuckin' "Florida." In order to do so, unfortunately I needed money.
Hence, the last thing I wished to do was enslave myself. Because we all resided in a concentration camp for a society, however, that's what I was forced to do, in order to pursue my passions.
This woman was so severely brainwashed, though, she actually believed I wanted to work! Didn't she realize if I didn't have to imprison myself, in order to move to another "state," she'd never see me again?
At my "job," I collected recently used cutlery and dishes, from people I'd never met, in order to survive. Proof I didn't want to work was the fact this wasn't what I did in my spare time. I didn't wander into homes, gather folks' soiled plates, dispose of their half-eaten dinners, and leave.
This brainwashed babe couldn't see that, due to malware written into the hard drive known as her brain. Through intensive inculcation, she'd been lied to that work was just that; work, even though everything about it reeked of slavery. It had been beaten into her skull work was good, and those who didn't do it were lazy.
She'd swallowed a 20,000 guy bukkake load of poisoned jizz that she now had a "career," even though what she was doing at her "job" she never did in her "free" time. Once she stopped being paid to do whatever the fuck she was doing, while enslaved, she wouldn't once do it again.
The same went for me, and most everybody else. Such is definitive proof nobody wants to work. Such is ironclad evidence we're all slaves, our lives forfeited, due to fear this system will crush us, if we don't imprison ourselves.
It's known as Dauphin, and in the 1970s, this Canadian town underwent an experiment forgotten by most. Citizens of this city were provided a guaranteed annual income ― coined Mincome; a combination of the words "minimum" and "income."
Those who worked, but were still below the poverty line, were provided supplemental cash to ensure their basic needs were met.
Nowadays, a similar movement advocated is called universal basic income (UBI). UBI is a system in which everyone is paid a base amount, regardless of whether or not everyone works. This income ensures nobody is destitute, and thus eradicates "poverty."
Don't have a job? No problem. With UBI, nobody will starve, nor be rendered homeless. One's fundamental bills are covered under this plan; i.e. everyone has enough to pay their rent, clothe themselves and keep food on the table.
People can continue to work, and thereby increase their income, but through UBI, they're guaranteed a certain amount with which to exist every month.
Universal basic income was proposed by late "economist" Milton Friedman in 1962, when he wrote:
We should replace the ragtag of specific welfare programs with a single comprehensive program of income supplements in cash.
― Milton Friedman **
** https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rJYLSrjFUxk
Friedman referred to this plan as negative income tax.
In 1967, Martin Luther King, Jr. trumpeted:
[…] seems to me that the civil rights movement must now begin to organize for the guaranteed annual income.
― Martin Luther King, Jr. ***
*** Ibid.
Even Tricky Dick ― Dick Nixon ― got in on the act in 1968, when he suggested 8,500 "Americans" take place in a basic income experiment.
For a number of reasons, though, this concept was forgotten over the years, and attempts to implement it, discontinued.
Along came Dauphin, Manitoba, in 1974, and things seemed to change. Under Mincome, citizens were guaranteed 50 cents extra for each dollar they accumulated, when enslaved ― uh, working ― until their income exceeded the poverty line. The unemployed were provided enough to ensure their compensatory status reached this same level.
Though many posit an assured basic income would cause the populace to become lazy, results from Dauphin disproved such. For the five years Mincome was issued, the population flourished. Hospitalization rates in Dauphin decreased; domestic violence and mental health dilemmas declined; moreover, people continued enslaving themselves ― uh, working.
Supporters of universal basic income wish to provide people more "free" time to pursue their passions. How many folks, who could have cured catastrophic diseases, died penniless in the streets?
I'm not prescient. I can, however, offer speculation ― based on history ― in regard to a secured income, and what may ensue, if one was implemented.
The term universal basic income is invalid. This Universe is an immense empyrean ocean, in which the Earth ― a mere atom of such ― resides. Thus, how do we know what types of income ― if any ― are employed throughout this Universe. To believe the microscopic fleck we call home is "universal" ― or this Universe ― is extremely arrogant.
Seems like semantics, but until we realize we aren't so "special" we're universal, we'll keep engaging in activities of extreme detriment. Until we comprehend we're one of multitudinous species that could be eradicated, we'll fallaciously surmise it doesn't matter how we conduct ourselves, because we'll exist forever.
Hence, let's refer to this proposition as guaranteed basic income (GBI), as opposed to universal basic income.
If GBI were enacted, it would provide the populace more time to educate themselves; more time to realize they're slaves. With a guaranteed basic income, the population may plausibly comprehend they're being slaughtered by the very government they believe is protecting them.
After a substantial portion of the proletariat screams for GBI, bureaucracy may reluctantly institute it, in order to calm the masses. That said, government would almost assuredly ― probably covertly ― mandate an additional income tax, an increased income tax, or some other tax that would make the guaranteed basic income null and void.
Why?
If you're reading this book, you probably comprehend government wants you constantly imprisoned at your "job," or "career." By doing so, you don't have time to recognize you're a slave. This is imperative, when it comes to keeping you imprisoned.
If you have time to understand you're an incarcerate, there's a strong chance you'll attempt to escape. Once you see other captives liberating themselves, you'll almost assuredly do the same.
Such is exactly what authority fears.
As a result, they'll do anything to keep you ignorant of the truth. If they don't, they realize it means their assured demise. They've already thrown an onslaught of lies, propaganda and subterfuge at you ― you're currently drowning in it ― in order to ensure you're asleep.
Government will continue treating you like mushrooms ― feeding you shit, and keeping you in the dark. Such a modus operandi is threatened by a guaranteed basic income, as it would no longer be mandatory for people to work, in order to survive. Hence, the populace would have "free" time to hop on the Internet, and or read, and discover authority has been enslaving them all along.
Again, this is exactly the situation those "in charge" fear most ― an awakening of the plebians. It ensures decimation of control.
The in group will do all it can to stay in power. And that's what you gotta keep in mind. They'll use the army, and navy, and lies or whatever they have to use to keep in power. They're not about to give it up, 'cause they don't know of any other system that will perpetuate their kind.
― Jacque Fresco ****
**** https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qqN6sy7xWjw
GBI continues to work within this order that's designed to kill us. GBI therefore not only perpetuates the monetary system, it tacitly informs those subjugating us, "We support your money, and continue recognizing it as having value." This, even though I, and countless others, have proven money has no intrinsic worth.
As a result, we leave the demons "in charge." Considering they've brought us to the brink of nuclear decimation, this is a terrible idea. Given they've ensured nearly half of us will contract cancer, continuing to follow them is a monumentally shitty notion. Because they've ordered us to kill our own kind ― and we've acquiesced, making war ubiquitous on this planet ― our adherence to them is a path to our annihilation.
The late "economist" Milton Friedman suggested a guaranteed basic income, and then referred to it as a negative income tax.
What the fuck―?!
If the income tax is bad, get rid of it. Why the hell would you create a decree to counter a mandate that didn't work? Just expunge the original directive, and be done with it.
If you don't, you'll end up continually producing injunctions to offset the initial problem order. You'll implement numerous other mandates with which to rectify those. You'll perpetually produce useless shit at best; cataclysmically perfidious shit, at worst. We're talkin' extraneous, and or nocuous, crap that will end our species ― like the disorder we have now.
We must do away with the absolutely specious notion that everybody has to earn a living. It is a fact today that one in ten thousand of us can make a technological breakthrough capable of supporting all the rest. The youth of today are absolutely right in recognizing this nonsense of earning a living.
We keep inventing jobs because of this false idea that everybody has to be employed at some kind of drudgery because, according to Malthusian-Darwinian theory, he must justify his right to exist. So we have inspectors of inspectors of inspectors and people making instruments for inspectors to inspect inspectors.
The true business of people should be to […] think about what they were thinking about before somebody came along and told them they had to earn a living.
― R. Buckminster Fuller *****
***** https://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/Buckminster_Fuller
Creating a negative income tax is akin to MAD ― mutually assured destruction. This insane premise proclaims: Because your "country" has enough nukes to exterminate humanity on Earth 10,000 times over, and my "country" has the ability to do so 15,000 times, we won't use these weapons.
That's fuckin' psychotic! If you're not gonna use the fuckers, then why have 'em in the first place?!
The answer ― when it comes to nuclear weapons, as well as income tax ― is because they haven't been created to protect the populace; they've been developed to enslave it. We, the people, are constantly in fear of both, and those we've placed "in power" use this anxiety to control us.
Unless you destroy the monetary system, it will destroy you.
It's imperative we eradicate the malware in our brains, and rewrite a program based upon truth. We've been falsely indoctrinated to believe money equates to wealth.
In reality, wealth has no relation to how many useless pieces of paper you can collect. It is relevant to how you perceive affluence in your inchoate state, before this skull scrubbing began.
Thus, having enough to drink and eat denotes wealth. Plenty of fresh air to breathe also represents prosperity. Perpetual shelter is an indicator of abundance.
But let's delve further. Without the ability to be who you are, your inner essence ― be it a soul, or whatever you'd like to call it ― dies.
Your catalyst for living vaporizes.
Hence, aren't you rich ― to yourself, and the rest of the species ― if you're able to pursue your passions? That is, as long as your cravings aren't killing, rape, or some other undertaking pernicious to humanity.
The definitive answer is, "Yes!" Many of those allowed to follow their dreams will develop ideologies and inventions imperative to the survival of our race. That's wealth!
Doesn't a panacea for all types of cancers blow the living shit out of a pile of naturally worthless pieces of paper, known as cash?
If you've got cancer ― which 40% of us do ― you're fuckin'-A right! Don't matta' how much bling you sling, if you're infected and nobody has a cure.
Hence, knowledge is wealth. Without the ability to learn and apply erudition, we're fuckin' broke!
If you don't have a working method to migrate our species off this planet, when this Universe demolishes Earth, it doesn't matter if you've got 10 BMWs, or "own" BMW. You're more fucked than George Bush Sr. at a "Let's–Sleep–With–Inbred-Old–Freaks" convention!
Monetarily, I have nothing. That said, I know people who do, but are clueless to reality ― unknowingly existing in a prison.
As a result, they don't do anything to liberate themselves. On the other hand, I'm doing everything possible to provide our species freedom.
Would you rather have a race of ignorant slaves, who don't know they're imprisoned, or erudite individuals with a means to escape? Which do you think makes our species more wealthy?
Although GBI is not eradication of the monetary system, perhaps it will provide the population time necessary to realize money must be eliminated.
Maybe the end of currency of any kind would be too much for the populace to mentally contend with, right now. Perhaps a steady weaning from it is the approach easiest to digest.
Of one fact I am certain: The last thing government will do is relinquish control over us. Authority would rather see us dead, than allow us to be free.
SOURCES:
ONLINE SOURCES:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Basic_income
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mincome
http://basicincome.org/
https://www.reddit.com/r/BasicIncome/
http://www.scottsantens.com/
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ydKcaIE6O1k
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LsutNKH7KiE
Quite an experience to live in fear, isn't it? That's what it is to be a slave.
― Blade Runner *
* https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=orlfh1JuHwg
"Wow! You really like to work," exclaimed the cookie-cutter manager. You've never missed a shift," the woman smiled, delusional, myopic and brainwashed to the point of extreme mental illness.
I grinned, asking myself, "Did this indoctrinated idiot really believe I wanted to work? Could she seriously be that insane she thought I hungered to be enslaved?!
Of course I wasn't desirous of working. I wanted to go to fuckin' "Florida." In order to do so, unfortunately I needed money.
Hence, the last thing I wished to do was enslave myself. Because we all resided in a concentration camp for a society, however, that's what I was forced to do, in order to pursue my passions.
This woman was so severely brainwashed, though, she actually believed I wanted to work! Didn't she realize if I didn't have to imprison myself, in order to move to another "state," she'd never see me again?
At my "job," I collected recently used cutlery and dishes, from people I'd never met, in order to survive. Proof I didn't want to work was the fact this wasn't what I did in my spare time. I didn't wander into homes, gather folks' soiled plates, dispose of their half-eaten dinners, and leave.
This brainwashed babe couldn't see that, due to malware written into the hard drive known as her brain. Through intensive inculcation, she'd been lied to that work was just that; work, even though everything about it reeked of slavery. It had been beaten into her skull work was good, and those who didn't do it were lazy.
She'd swallowed a 20,000 guy bukkake load of poisoned jizz that she now had a "career," even though what she was doing at her "job" she never did in her "free" time. Once she stopped being paid to do whatever the fuck she was doing, while enslaved, she wouldn't once do it again.
The same went for me, and most everybody else. Such is definitive proof nobody wants to work. Such is ironclad evidence we're all slaves, our lives forfeited, due to fear this system will crush us, if we don't imprison ourselves.
It's known as Dauphin, and in the 1970s, this Canadian town underwent an experiment forgotten by most. Citizens of this city were provided a guaranteed annual income ― coined Mincome; a combination of the words "minimum" and "income."
Those who worked, but were still below the poverty line, were provided supplemental cash to ensure their basic needs were met.
Nowadays, a similar movement advocated is called universal basic income (UBI). UBI is a system in which everyone is paid a base amount, regardless of whether or not everyone works. This income ensures nobody is destitute, and thus eradicates "poverty."
Don't have a job? No problem. With UBI, nobody will starve, nor be rendered homeless. One's fundamental bills are covered under this plan; i.e. everyone has enough to pay their rent, clothe themselves and keep food on the table.
People can continue to work, and thereby increase their income, but through UBI, they're guaranteed a certain amount with which to exist every month.
Universal basic income was proposed by late "economist" Milton Friedman in 1962, when he wrote:
We should replace the ragtag of specific welfare programs with a single comprehensive program of income supplements in cash.
― Milton Friedman **
** https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rJYLSrjFUxk
Friedman referred to this plan as negative income tax.
In 1967, Martin Luther King, Jr. trumpeted:
[…] seems to me that the civil rights movement must now begin to organize for the guaranteed annual income.
― Martin Luther King, Jr. ***
*** Ibid.
Even Tricky Dick ― Dick Nixon ― got in on the act in 1968, when he suggested 8,500 "Americans" take place in a basic income experiment.
For a number of reasons, though, this concept was forgotten over the years, and attempts to implement it, discontinued.
Along came Dauphin, Manitoba, in 1974, and things seemed to change. Under Mincome, citizens were guaranteed 50 cents extra for each dollar they accumulated, when enslaved ― uh, working ― until their income exceeded the poverty line. The unemployed were provided enough to ensure their compensatory status reached this same level.
Though many posit an assured basic income would cause the populace to become lazy, results from Dauphin disproved such. For the five years Mincome was issued, the population flourished. Hospitalization rates in Dauphin decreased; domestic violence and mental health dilemmas declined; moreover, people continued enslaving themselves ― uh, working.
Supporters of universal basic income wish to provide people more "free" time to pursue their passions. How many folks, who could have cured catastrophic diseases, died penniless in the streets?
I'm not prescient. I can, however, offer speculation ― based on history ― in regard to a secured income, and what may ensue, if one was implemented.
The term universal basic income is invalid. This Universe is an immense empyrean ocean, in which the Earth ― a mere atom of such ― resides. Thus, how do we know what types of income ― if any ― are employed throughout this Universe. To believe the microscopic fleck we call home is "universal" ― or this Universe ― is extremely arrogant.
Seems like semantics, but until we realize we aren't so "special" we're universal, we'll keep engaging in activities of extreme detriment. Until we comprehend we're one of multitudinous species that could be eradicated, we'll fallaciously surmise it doesn't matter how we conduct ourselves, because we'll exist forever.
Hence, let's refer to this proposition as guaranteed basic income (GBI), as opposed to universal basic income.
If GBI were enacted, it would provide the populace more time to educate themselves; more time to realize they're slaves. With a guaranteed basic income, the population may plausibly comprehend they're being slaughtered by the very government they believe is protecting them.
After a substantial portion of the proletariat screams for GBI, bureaucracy may reluctantly institute it, in order to calm the masses. That said, government would almost assuredly ― probably covertly ― mandate an additional income tax, an increased income tax, or some other tax that would make the guaranteed basic income null and void.
Why?
If you're reading this book, you probably comprehend government wants you constantly imprisoned at your "job," or "career." By doing so, you don't have time to recognize you're a slave. This is imperative, when it comes to keeping you imprisoned.
If you have time to understand you're an incarcerate, there's a strong chance you'll attempt to escape. Once you see other captives liberating themselves, you'll almost assuredly do the same.
Such is exactly what authority fears.
As a result, they'll do anything to keep you ignorant of the truth. If they don't, they realize it means their assured demise. They've already thrown an onslaught of lies, propaganda and subterfuge at you ― you're currently drowning in it ― in order to ensure you're asleep.
Government will continue treating you like mushrooms ― feeding you shit, and keeping you in the dark. Such a modus operandi is threatened by a guaranteed basic income, as it would no longer be mandatory for people to work, in order to survive. Hence, the populace would have "free" time to hop on the Internet, and or read, and discover authority has been enslaving them all along.
Again, this is exactly the situation those "in charge" fear most ― an awakening of the plebians. It ensures decimation of control.
The in group will do all it can to stay in power. And that's what you gotta keep in mind. They'll use the army, and navy, and lies or whatever they have to use to keep in power. They're not about to give it up, 'cause they don't know of any other system that will perpetuate their kind.
― Jacque Fresco ****
**** https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qqN6sy7xWjw
GBI continues to work within this order that's designed to kill us. GBI therefore not only perpetuates the monetary system, it tacitly informs those subjugating us, "We support your money, and continue recognizing it as having value." This, even though I, and countless others, have proven money has no intrinsic worth.
As a result, we leave the demons "in charge." Considering they've brought us to the brink of nuclear decimation, this is a terrible idea. Given they've ensured nearly half of us will contract cancer, continuing to follow them is a monumentally shitty notion. Because they've ordered us to kill our own kind ― and we've acquiesced, making war ubiquitous on this planet ― our adherence to them is a path to our annihilation.
The late "economist" Milton Friedman suggested a guaranteed basic income, and then referred to it as a negative income tax.
What the fuck―?!
If the income tax is bad, get rid of it. Why the hell would you create a decree to counter a mandate that didn't work? Just expunge the original directive, and be done with it.
If you don't, you'll end up continually producing injunctions to offset the initial problem order. You'll implement numerous other mandates with which to rectify those. You'll perpetually produce useless shit at best; cataclysmically perfidious shit, at worst. We're talkin' extraneous, and or nocuous, crap that will end our species ― like the disorder we have now.
We must do away with the absolutely specious notion that everybody has to earn a living. It is a fact today that one in ten thousand of us can make a technological breakthrough capable of supporting all the rest. The youth of today are absolutely right in recognizing this nonsense of earning a living.
We keep inventing jobs because of this false idea that everybody has to be employed at some kind of drudgery because, according to Malthusian-Darwinian theory, he must justify his right to exist. So we have inspectors of inspectors of inspectors and people making instruments for inspectors to inspect inspectors.
The true business of people should be to […] think about what they were thinking about before somebody came along and told them they had to earn a living.
― R. Buckminster Fuller *****
***** https://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/Buckminster_Fuller
Creating a negative income tax is akin to MAD ― mutually assured destruction. This insane premise proclaims: Because your "country" has enough nukes to exterminate humanity on Earth 10,000 times over, and my "country" has the ability to do so 15,000 times, we won't use these weapons.
That's fuckin' psychotic! If you're not gonna use the fuckers, then why have 'em in the first place?!
The answer ― when it comes to nuclear weapons, as well as income tax ― is because they haven't been created to protect the populace; they've been developed to enslave it. We, the people, are constantly in fear of both, and those we've placed "in power" use this anxiety to control us.
Unless you destroy the monetary system, it will destroy you.
It's imperative we eradicate the malware in our brains, and rewrite a program based upon truth. We've been falsely indoctrinated to believe money equates to wealth.
In reality, wealth has no relation to how many useless pieces of paper you can collect. It is relevant to how you perceive affluence in your inchoate state, before this skull scrubbing began.
Thus, having enough to drink and eat denotes wealth. Plenty of fresh air to breathe also represents prosperity. Perpetual shelter is an indicator of abundance.
But let's delve further. Without the ability to be who you are, your inner essence ― be it a soul, or whatever you'd like to call it ― dies.
Your catalyst for living vaporizes.
Hence, aren't you rich ― to yourself, and the rest of the species ― if you're able to pursue your passions? That is, as long as your cravings aren't killing, rape, or some other undertaking pernicious to humanity.
The definitive answer is, "Yes!" Many of those allowed to follow their dreams will develop ideologies and inventions imperative to the survival of our race. That's wealth!
Doesn't a panacea for all types of cancers blow the living shit out of a pile of naturally worthless pieces of paper, known as cash?
If you've got cancer ― which 40% of us do ― you're fuckin'-A right! Don't matta' how much bling you sling, if you're infected and nobody has a cure.
Hence, knowledge is wealth. Without the ability to learn and apply erudition, we're fuckin' broke!
If you don't have a working method to migrate our species off this planet, when this Universe demolishes Earth, it doesn't matter if you've got 10 BMWs, or "own" BMW. You're more fucked than George Bush Sr. at a "Let's–Sleep–With–Inbred-Old–Freaks" convention!
Monetarily, I have nothing. That said, I know people who do, but are clueless to reality ― unknowingly existing in a prison.
As a result, they don't do anything to liberate themselves. On the other hand, I'm doing everything possible to provide our species freedom.
Would you rather have a race of ignorant slaves, who don't know they're imprisoned, or erudite individuals with a means to escape? Which do you think makes our species more wealthy?
Although GBI is not eradication of the monetary system, perhaps it will provide the population time necessary to realize money must be eliminated.
Maybe the end of currency of any kind would be too much for the populace to mentally contend with, right now. Perhaps a steady weaning from it is the approach easiest to digest.
Of one fact I am certain: The last thing government will do is relinquish control over us. Authority would rather see us dead, than allow us to be free.
SOURCES:
ONLINE SOURCES:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Basic_income
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mincome
http://basicincome.org/
https://www.reddit.com/r/BasicIncome/
http://www.scottsantens.com/
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ydKcaIE6O1k
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LsutNKH7KiE
POSTHUMOUS
The illusion of freedom will continue as long as it's profitable to continue the illusion. At the point where the illusion becomes too expensive to maintain, they will just take down the scenery, they will pull back the curtains, they will move the tables and chairs out of the way, and you will see the brick wall at the back of the theater.
― Frank Zappa *
* http://www.azquotes.com/quote/347129
We've become delusional; speaking, but saying nothing. Existing in a "communication age" in which we're unable to communicate. Certain we're superior, yet being the only species on Earth currently destroying itself.
As a breed on this planet, we feel we're unparalleled. Such stated, we're the sole genus on the verge of decimating nearly every other species here…including us.
From an impartial eye, humanity isn't superlative at all, but a nasty plague, at this point. Such doesn't have to be. Look at the technology we've developed, even under this horrific system enslaving us. We're capable of amazing things.
Instead, we choose to follow "leaders," who are nothing more than liars, selling us a bill of rotten goods. Rather than using our intellect to take us to the next Universe, we allow these "commanders" to coerce us into creating our own demise, and falling in love with our self-inflicted genocide.
When was the last time you saw a popular video game based upon pure space exploration, as opposed to murder? We're brainwashed to believe that killing each other is more exciting than uncovering the mysteries of this Multiverse.
[P]eople watch the news — say CNN, Fox or NBC — and they get to a point where they can't take it anymore. And then they just tune out. It's too confusing; too violent; too negative. You start to wonder, "Why put that into my life?" […]
It's a loss of control; a sense that the vehicle you thought you were driving is actually being driven by someone else.
It comes with this sense of confusion about the world, in which the politics around us don't seem to make any sense, and there doesn't seem to be any way out.
[T]his is by design. The confusion, the hopelessness, is not an accident. Maybe once, long ago, we might have believed that the political establishment was working for the people. Corrupt? Sure, but more or less something that worked on behalf of the public.
It's what our society still tells us every day. That ever so slowly we're moving toward greater inclusion; greater democracy. Right? Well, maybe not.
The confusion and hopelessness are no accident, and there is a reason for this.
― Richard Dolan **
** https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uTTVEZQcYGE
People don't steal because they're naturally bad. They steal because they're thrust into a system that demands thievery. In this system, if you don't steal, you die. Thus, the problem isn't the people; it's the system.
In a logical paradigm, you don't have to pay, in order to survive.
In a rational society, there's no tariff on your life. The ideology itself, let alone the implementation of such, screams mental illness! Yet, you consider this "healthy" and "normal."
In a sensible civilization, you're simply able to be, which is the way things occur naturally. Think you know better than nature? Well, just keep on opposing it, and see how far that gets you. It's already brought you to the brink of nuclear Armageddon, hasn't it?
And if you don't believe this system forces people to steal, consider the fact food, shelter and water were freely available to everyone intrinsically. Since the implementation of this order incarcerating us, these basic necessities have been stolen, and we're now forced to pay for them. If we refuse to pay, these essentials to existence are denied us, and we're murdered, as a result.
Don't lie to yourselves. Your kids will never escape Earth by following rules of a system designed to destroy them. Why am I even appealing to you? If you cared about your kids, you wouldn't have had them in the first place.
If you love an innocent life, you don't bring it into a society in which every member exists under constant threat of nuclear annihilation. You do bring that innocent life into such a pernicious paradigm because you're ignorant of reality, attempting to conform, or both.
Again, we exist in an era in which so many speak, but so few say anything. Rather than talk, I write. Complacency, and thus complicity, to our demise is no option for me.
Whether it matters or not, I'm incapable of being part of the dark. I have to be part of the light.
Perhaps the information I provide will be viewed posthumously ― after I depart my physical form; i.e. die. Perhaps it won't. I just need to provide it.
Maybe somebody will geocache my work ― which is your work, as well, since ownership is an illusion ― and people will awaken to reality more rapidly than they currently are.
Perhaps you'll find this tome at a used book fare, and pick it up for pennies.
Maybe you'll uncover this publication wedged beneath the jamb to Room 641A ― as government keeps this door from slamming shut, while relocating its conduit to your innermost thoughts.
The latter will never happen, but then again, you follow proven psychopaths over a cliff of destruction, so perhaps anything's possible.
I write about whatever I feel, at this point. If you don't enjoy the topics herein, go fuck yourselves. After all, you're fucking everybody on this planet ― including you ― by choosing to remain asleep, and deciding to do nothing.
The illusion of freedom will continue as long as it's profitable to continue the illusion. At the point where the illusion becomes too expensive to maintain, they will just take down the scenery, they will pull back the curtains, they will move the tables and chairs out of the way, and you will see the brick wall at the back of the theater.
― Frank Zappa *
* http://www.azquotes.com/quote/347129
We've become delusional; speaking, but saying nothing. Existing in a "communication age" in which we're unable to communicate. Certain we're superior, yet being the only species on Earth currently destroying itself.
As a breed on this planet, we feel we're unparalleled. Such stated, we're the sole genus on the verge of decimating nearly every other species here…including us.
From an impartial eye, humanity isn't superlative at all, but a nasty plague, at this point. Such doesn't have to be. Look at the technology we've developed, even under this horrific system enslaving us. We're capable of amazing things.
Instead, we choose to follow "leaders," who are nothing more than liars, selling us a bill of rotten goods. Rather than using our intellect to take us to the next Universe, we allow these "commanders" to coerce us into creating our own demise, and falling in love with our self-inflicted genocide.
When was the last time you saw a popular video game based upon pure space exploration, as opposed to murder? We're brainwashed to believe that killing each other is more exciting than uncovering the mysteries of this Multiverse.
[P]eople watch the news — say CNN, Fox or NBC — and they get to a point where they can't take it anymore. And then they just tune out. It's too confusing; too violent; too negative. You start to wonder, "Why put that into my life?" […]
It's a loss of control; a sense that the vehicle you thought you were driving is actually being driven by someone else.
It comes with this sense of confusion about the world, in which the politics around us don't seem to make any sense, and there doesn't seem to be any way out.
[T]his is by design. The confusion, the hopelessness, is not an accident. Maybe once, long ago, we might have believed that the political establishment was working for the people. Corrupt? Sure, but more or less something that worked on behalf of the public.
It's what our society still tells us every day. That ever so slowly we're moving toward greater inclusion; greater democracy. Right? Well, maybe not.
The confusion and hopelessness are no accident, and there is a reason for this.
― Richard Dolan **
** https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uTTVEZQcYGE
People don't steal because they're naturally bad. They steal because they're thrust into a system that demands thievery. In this system, if you don't steal, you die. Thus, the problem isn't the people; it's the system.
In a logical paradigm, you don't have to pay, in order to survive.
In a rational society, there's no tariff on your life. The ideology itself, let alone the implementation of such, screams mental illness! Yet, you consider this "healthy" and "normal."
In a sensible civilization, you're simply able to be, which is the way things occur naturally. Think you know better than nature? Well, just keep on opposing it, and see how far that gets you. It's already brought you to the brink of nuclear Armageddon, hasn't it?
And if you don't believe this system forces people to steal, consider the fact food, shelter and water were freely available to everyone intrinsically. Since the implementation of this order incarcerating us, these basic necessities have been stolen, and we're now forced to pay for them. If we refuse to pay, these essentials to existence are denied us, and we're murdered, as a result.
Don't lie to yourselves. Your kids will never escape Earth by following rules of a system designed to destroy them. Why am I even appealing to you? If you cared about your kids, you wouldn't have had them in the first place.
If you love an innocent life, you don't bring it into a society in which every member exists under constant threat of nuclear annihilation. You do bring that innocent life into such a pernicious paradigm because you're ignorant of reality, attempting to conform, or both.
Again, we exist in an era in which so many speak, but so few say anything. Rather than talk, I write. Complacency, and thus complicity, to our demise is no option for me.
Whether it matters or not, I'm incapable of being part of the dark. I have to be part of the light.
Perhaps the information I provide will be viewed posthumously ― after I depart my physical form; i.e. die. Perhaps it won't. I just need to provide it.
Maybe somebody will geocache my work ― which is your work, as well, since ownership is an illusion ― and people will awaken to reality more rapidly than they currently are.
Perhaps you'll find this tome at a used book fare, and pick it up for pennies.
Maybe you'll uncover this publication wedged beneath the jamb to Room 641A ― as government keeps this door from slamming shut, while relocating its conduit to your innermost thoughts.
The latter will never happen, but then again, you follow proven psychopaths over a cliff of destruction, so perhaps anything's possible.
I write about whatever I feel, at this point. If you don't enjoy the topics herein, go fuck yourselves. After all, you're fucking everybody on this planet ― including you ― by choosing to remain asleep, and deciding to do nothing.