by nielskunze on October 15, 2016
“Sorry kids, I had to destroy the world in order to keep you well fed.”
“I shall indenture myself to the slave-master most likely to release me from bondage.”
“Be sure to adequately infect the children!”
I desperately wish to live among self-empowered, intelligent, thoughtful people… you know, adults. But alas, I live among delicate snowflakes destined to become just so much dirty meltwater.
What happened to the human Spirit?
What happened to the human Heart?
What happened to the human Mind?
They are all tightly bundled into that Holy Grail/False Prophet called the right to vote.
The right to vote is forcibly marketed to us, relentlessly, as the system’s greatest lever for individual and collective self-expression… with the sure promise that our participation will be amply rewarded. But that is wholly predicated upon the assumption that the system is functional, that it is coherent, that it is honest, that it is sane.
It is not! How can anyone any longer doubt that?
It’s called representational democracy. (Yes, I know asshole, it’s a constitutional republic– in the USA. We all know that it’s nothing of the sort in actuality, so shut the fuck up.) Does anyone feel well-represented by this cycle’s crop of bloviating rot?
Do these cabbage heads really represent a cogent response to your deepest concerns for the future? For the future of your children? Really?
And this has been my favourite, most persistent question of all: Is this the best we can do?
Holy bananaless republics, Batman! I sure the fuck hope not!
Let’s get down to basics. (This will be strictly for review purposes only, as I’ve covered this at length previously.)
NONE of us currently lives in a functional democracy. This is verifiable and irrefutable. (I’m trying to discontinue using the word ‘undeniable’ because I’ve found that the delicate snowflakes shaped like human beings in this world are frustratingly still able to deny anything, despite its obvious irrefutability.)
A democracy– any kind of democracy, asshole– which claims to derive its power solely from the People (by the People, of the People, for the People blah blah blah) necessarily relies upon an informed electorate. In simplest terms, if the People are not accurately and completely informed of their government’s policies and actions domestically and abroad, then it is simply– irrefutably— impossible for such a ‘democracy’ to be functional or to have integrity. Period.
When there is any faction of government which operates without meaningful public oversight, when any government agency operates outside or above the law, proper democracy is impossible… and covert tyranny takes its place. This is perhaps the most unrecognized fact of western ‘civilization’– the true nature of the World-Devouring Machine.
We ALL reside in covert tyrannies. We are irrefutably manipulated into consenting to a world condition not of our conscious considered choosing. How can this be cogently argued?
I have long ago learned the complete futility of trying to present anything with even the tiniest whiff of conspiracy to the delicate snowflake crowd. For snowflakes, a snowstorm (snow-job) is the only conspiracy possible. So let’s take a peek at the irrefutable proof of our non-existent democracies.
It would be easy to misconstrue the reason why I included this brief video clip. Hint: it’s not because I wish to demonstrate Hillary’s obvious ineligibility for holding public office. The point of this essay, after all, is that it doesn’t much matter who holds the office of president. Presidents don’t write the script. They are merely paid actors belonging to an agenda beyond their control and comprehension.
The video clip introduces, for the first time into public awareness and discourse, the existence of ORCON classified intelligence. As mentioned during the hearing, ORCON refers to ‘originator controlled.’ Looking further into what this actually means, we find that this classification of intelligence report stands above any and all grades or categories of standard security clearance. In fact, there is no one within the elected governmental structure who holds a security clearance ranking high enough to oversee ORCON materials. Such a ranking simply does not exist anywhere within the governmental system. Only the originator of the classified material may decide who has permission to be ‘read into’ the contents of such materials. What this means is that the originator of such intelligence can effectively tell the president to “Fuck off” should he or she ask to see such materials. By the very definition of ORCON classified material, it is impossible for there to be any meaningful oversight by elected officials of projects and operations designated as ORCON.
The public is tacitly asked to simply trust that whatever these projects and operations entail they are in and for the best interests of the electorate. I have to grant that it is possible that such black-ops are really in the public’s interest, but the probability of such would entail quite the astonishing level of naïvety that I am forced to regard it as virtually impossible.
Presidents themselves have repeatedly informed the public of the Deep State, the Shadow Government, the Military-Industrial Complex, the Hidden Hand, etc. Woodrow Wilson in his memoirs lamented ceding control of American economic affairs to the privately-owned banking cartel known as the Federal Reserve in 1913 via the Federal Reserve Act. Eisenhower, upon leaving office, felt compelled to warn the public about the pernicious and avaricious nature of the Military-Industrial Complex, who were already in the 1950s used to calling their own shots (pun intended) with little to no meaningful opposition or oversight. Then Kennedy, following quickly on the heels of Eisenhower, delivered a speech at The Press Club about a “far-reaching conspiracy” that he was determined to take on, expose and uproot before the end of his presidency. Well, we all know how that turned out. (Delicate snowflakes will cling to the lone-gunman narrative like a child clinging to the ‘reality’ of Santa Claus in an irrational refusal to grow up.)
Maybe presidents are all actually comedians; they like to joke about the usurpation of democratic principles and the resulting societal dysfunction. Fucking hilarious! Good one, guys! In addition though, there have actually been numerous congressmen and senators who have seen fit to similarly go on record exposing the very same reality of the democratic sham perpetrated and maintained by the Deep State. I invite you to look further into it.
Elections are very bad theatre… for ugly people, as the saying goes. But it still serves a vital societal purpose. And that purpose is to acquire the consent of the governed.
And now we’re getting to the crux of the matter.
Every ‘democratic’ election is a covert referendum. The question being asked in the referendum is: Do you consent to be governed by the existing system? Anyone who shows up to register their vote– regardless of the candidate(s) selected– is casting a Yes-vote. “Yes, I consent to being governed by the existing system… at least until the next time I am offered the opportunity to vote again.” A No-vote is ‘registered’ by simply refusing to vote, thus withdrawing one’s consent from the farcical system. Even if you write in a selection outside of the candidates officially offered, you are still giving clear and binding consent to being obedient/subservient to the misrepresentational system.
Ironically, and in blatant contradiction to the obvious truth, agreeing to participate by casting our vote is aggressively marketed as ‘raising our voices,’ or ‘standing up’ for something or other, or– my favourite– ‘making a difference.’ By thusly granting consent to the inept, secretive and corrupted system we are effectively giving away our personal power to innovate, to rectify, to heal our broken societies ourselves (the ONLY way such may be accomplished… you know grassroots, common understanding, and all that). Even Bernie Sanders during his recent campaigning explained that ultimately it didn’t matter who the People voted into the White House, for if grassroots support for fundamental change wasn’t prevalent, vociferous and relentless, then even he, Bernie Sanders, would be utterly powerless to affect such desired change solely through the agency of the presidency.
Presidents are far less important than self-empowered, clear-headed individuals.
“A house divided against itself cannot long stand”… or something like that. If you’re an activist, gunning for systemic reform, how in the world can you register your vote in a grossly dysfunctional system, granting it your clear– albeit tacit– consent, and then waste your energy railing against the very system you’ve just openly supported– and ever hope to succeed? It’s a schizophrenic strategy at best!
And that’s really my point. The system is masterful at divide-and-conquer. Everywhere we look in our modern society we see it in action. Our very systems of law and governance are deeply adversarial. Economics are fiercely competitive, and education serves the purposes of perpetuating the strife– attempting to give youngsters a trifling competitive edge… so they don’t end up being hopeless losers like me! But the primary division, the one that fundamentally causes all the rest, is the division within ourselves. If we maintain a shred of individual moral conscience, and yet delegate our most sacred right for self-determination to inept bureaucracies, we are fundamentally divided against ourselves and our own best interests. How can anyone still pretend that our elected officials have the best interests of the world’s peoples at heart? Do they even have hearts? (Ask the Afghanis, Syrians, the Iraqis, the people of Libya, Yemen, etc.)
Intention is a real thing… well, I guess only if you believe that your own mind is real. (Beyond the sacredness of their own pathetic comfort zones, I really don’t know what snowflakes believe.) Intention is the creative force behind choice– the choice to determine the future world we’d like to live in and leave to our children. Consent is secondary to intent; in the absence of one’s own creative force called intent, consent takes its place, and we are bound by that to which we agree… a binding contract written in our own subconscious.
Perhaps this is all a bit too Castanedian for your tastes, but it’s not just woo-woo spirituality or speculative philosophy; it’s verifiable basic psychology. It’s the way it works, and I implore you to check it out for yourself. If our collective goal is to create a better, saner, sustainable world culture, then such would require the full force and power of each individual’s clear intent to be claimed and exercised in such a direction unfettered. Those who currently hold the reins of ‘power’ will not grant the plebes the opportunity to vote for even a slight diminishment of their inordinately centralized power. To believe otherwise is painfully naïve, hopelessly foolish and downright stupid. If you can’t see it, and I recognize that many still cannot, all I ask is that you keep your eyes, your hearts, and your minds open, bringing all of the awareness and intelligence you can muster to bear on the world situation as it continues to spiral out of control in blatant disregard for your and my better judgment.
If you could just summon the courage to stop supporting the ugly tragic comedy that is called democracy– but is irrefutably nothing of the sort– then I would be proud to stand beside you shoulder-to-shoulder, rolling up our sleeves to finally tackle the challenges before us in the only way possible: as free-thinking, caring individuals.
Casting your vote for who should become president is nothing more than deciding the shade of lipstick to be applied to the pig being trotted out to an exceedingly gullible public.
Freedom can be terrifying indeed, but it’s also commensurately rewarding… and your children will thank you for your courage and fortitude.
I do realize that encouraging others to refrain from voting goes directly against all of our societal conditioning and programming. I further realize that hardly anyone will heed my advice in this regard. But you know the phrase ‘the right side of history’…? Well, in generations hence– if we in fact survive this tumultuous time– the retrospective eyes and considerations of our children’s children, I am confident, will not look unfavourably upon one such as myself who encouraged extricating ourselves from an obviously failed system during the painful decline of empire, to initiate grassroots solutions based in common understanding and individual moral conscience, over apathetically acquiescing to an obvious fraud. Those who currently maintain confidence in the system’s ability to self-correct will be shown to have lacked even the most basic understanding of the challenges we face as living human beings.
(And BTW, I don’t have a horse in this race. I’m Canadian, but everything I say about the good ol’ USA equally applies to my own country. It’s just that everything is exaggerated to the nth degree in american politics… all part and parcel of being exceptional and indispensable, of course. Canada, like every western democracy, has its own secret factions of government which I am simply not permitted to know anything of significance about. For instance, most Canadians don’t even know that our primary spook network is the CSIS. “Oh c’mon, you aren’t going to tell me that nice polite Canadians are engaged in secret nefarious activities, are you?” Native American genocide anyone? You know, the residential schools thingy. Oh, but former PM Harper had that whole Truth and Reconciliation deal… all out in the open now, right? Yes, of course, the shameful whitewash… many decades after the fact, hardly any witnesses still alive. Had it been left up to regular Canadians do we really believe that we would have consciously chosen to destroy the traditional culture, to break the Spirit of the Indian, to break the hearts of thousands of families, and if any of the little buggers gave us significant trouble it was alright to take ‘em out back and put a bullet in their heads? Would regular folk have so easily approved of the mass graves? No, of course not. We need government for that… and all they need is our consent. Well, I don’t mind one bit saying “Fuck off!”)
by nielskunze on October 4, 2016
He won??? He fucking won?!
Dean was sitting in front of the computer, slack-jawed and drooling, the spittle of naive incredulity plummeting to his pajamaed lap. It was November 9th, 2016 and the morning’s coffee was brewing in the kitchen while Dean had cheerfully gone to the computer to learn of Hillary’s final margin of victory in the election spectacle of the century. But… but… how could it be? Hillary hadn’t won at all! Despite the steady assurances of months of polling, despite the insouciant media and their specialized training as sycophantic barking seals, slapping their fins together incessantly for dear Hillary, despite the twisted mangled wreck of ‘progressive’ common sense everywhere– despite all that, in and to the face of all reasonable expectation, the results were a stinging slap… to everything Dean had ever stood for– or rather, to everything Dean had imagined himself to stand for.
The Donald, the Big D, the Giant Douche had won the presidency… and they were calling it a landslide. Dean was incapable of understanding such a result… at all.
(There was a great deal which Dean was incapable of understanding… at all.)
“He won???” Dean had to say it out loud to himself in a begging, whiny, sniveling tone, as though that might somehow still undo the reality of it. Dean could not, however, bring himself to complete the old Eddie Murphy quote aloud– the ‘He fucking won?’ part. Dean would never utter such profanity aloud. He could silently think it to himself; in fact, ‘fuck’ was one of his most favouritest words within the private vacuity of his mind. But out in the world, where people shared their run-of-the-mill ideas and opinions responsibly, Dean used surrogates like ‘frick’ and ‘fiddlesticks’ and ‘shoot’– extensively. Dean was scrupulous about his personal political correctness.
He had to be. Dean was a professor, the dean actually, of the Political Science department of a major liberal college. Oops, the word ‘liberal’ was currently unfashionable, so let’s make that a major ‘progressive’ college. (Presumably, the word ‘liberal’ was misleading in that it could mistakenly be thought of as having something to do with liberty… and well, in this day and age, that’s just silly.)
Accepting the promotion, four years ago, to become the dean– when his actual name was also Dean– well that, that was about the cleverest thing professor Dean had ever been a part of… and he wasn’t shy about pointing out the hilarity of it to each and every new person he met. He seemed to genuinely enjoy the forced snickers and the effort required for each polite smile received. Somehow, it made him feel good about himself. And that’s all that fricken mattered, gosh-darn-it!
So, of course, Dean, the dean of the Poli-Sci department– haha– was all about political correctness. As far as he was concerned, political correctness was the greatest export to have come out of Canada since Justin Bieber or Nickelback. Oh, but now there was that new prime minister of theirs, the other Justin, who even on a really bad hair day was drastically more fuckable than Hillary had ever been. (Right Bill?) Canada seemed to really have it going on in Dean’s honest estimation… much in keeping with the vapid opinions of faggot retards everywhere.
Ah, political correctness, the ultimate civilizing principle; it was something marking a certain degree of social development, an important milestone alongside the sacredness of comfort zones and maintaining property values. For Dean it was nothing less than the meaning of life. After all, it was so simple, and logical. If you wanted to eliminate evil forever in a civilized society, all you had to do was ban all hate-speech. What is hate-speech? Well, anything that could be construed as hurtful, of course. Easy-peazy. Fuck yeah! thought Dean. “Frick yeah!” he said pretentiously out loud.
Oh, but wait. He’d already forgotten the lamentability of the present moment. Poor Hillary had lost. He needed to do something in order to process such a result, but really didn’t have a clue as to what he might do. How could any rational person make sense of something like that? He had cast his vote last evening in sure confidence in the inherent goodness of the world, or at least in the exceptional goodness of his fellow americans. Generations of redundant programming to domesticate every expression of ingenuity, imagination or inspiration, and forever pandering to the lowest common denominator among the masses– an education system fully committed to that– how could it possibly fail to deliver exceptionalism? We are a nation of exceptionals, he affirmed to himself. And then he got up from the computer momentarily to fetch himself a coffee; you know, to kick-start the old brain…
As he stood, he immediately noticed the handi-bus rolling by his window as it did every morning… a little more dilapidated, a little more crowded, but still a real inspiration… in a nihilistic sorta way. He hurried to get that coffee from the kitchen.
When he sat back down at the computer, steaming mug in hand, his first thought was that maybe there had been a problem with the overall voter turnout… but the early indications had been good. He pulled up an article from CNN. Nope. It said it right there: ‘best voter turnout ever.’ Nearly everyone, it seemed, had come out to cast his– or her– lot within the circus tent of electoral frivolity. And they’d overwhelmingly chosen the clown! (Most had had quite enough of the freak-show Hildebeast long ago. They’d given clear signals all along, but no one had noticed, least of all, Dean.)
Yes, professor Dean was actually well aware that it was mostly just bread and circuses anyway. Really, the popular vote for POTUS was mostly about putting the appropriate interim face on the enduring facade of Authority, nothing more. And the majority had elected to put the orange-haired buffoon forward as the newest face of Authority. Dean couldn’t imagine how that could possibly end well. (But then, Dean couldn’t really imagine much at all.)
The thread from which the wet blanket of american democracy was sewn was assuredly Authority. Dean had been enthusiastically licking at the asshole of Authority all his life… and he was a downright success! He had taught his children at a very young age to also lick the asshole of Authority at every opportunity. It’s how you got ahead… or how you gave head… or, er, something like that. Anyway, Authority was important, most important, to a man like Dean… and his unfortunate offspring… not to mention his hapless students.
Authority, yes… it couldn’t be freedom– no, certainly not. Dean had been so glad– in a secret, shh-don’t-tell-anyone kinda way– that day, early in the new millennium, when the towers had come down, and with them, the last of freedom’s dogged credibility. Freedom was hardly a thing to base a society around… a civilization, for gosh-sakes!
How much freedom did people really think they needed anyway? Dean could go, right now, to any one of three different Walmarts within driving distance, and choose from among literally thousands, maybe even millions, of cheap non-essential products– the very best that chinese labour could assemble. And then after shopping, he could have a Big Mac or a Whopper, or heck, maybe even a pizza. Choices man… that’s freedom. What more could a rational person want? No, any kinda freedom beyond that just wasn’t fair. What about the poor dullards? The ones without originality, with no imagination? No, any broader concept of freedom than that would be an affront to their self-esteem. Freedom was a thing of the past; it belonged to the gruff old cowboys of the wild west… and America had SO grown beyond that!
And now they’d voted for the crazy maverick. Dean figured that Trump hadn’t licked a single heartfelt lap at the true asshole of Authority in his life. Hillary, he was sure, had licked plenty of asshole in her day– granting her the proper perspective. But how in the heck was prudish Trump now suddenly supposed to pull off being president? How could he be expected to have a reasonable grasp of Authority at all? He was the asshole, and as far as that dimwit Trump knew, assholes were for just spewing shit. How could this be?
It was beginning to dawn on Dean that his fellow americans were perhaps something different from what he’d always imagined them to be. If they could vote for Trump– overwhelmingly– then Dean didn’t understand the first thing about all these people he’d never dare speak to– you know, the nut-jobs. Who knew there could be so many of them… still?
This might be a good place to expound on one of those many things Dean could never understand: in particular, the fuck-you vote, the middle-finger ballot. Only rebels and losers, people without proper haircuts, could ever give the finger to the status quo in Dean’s professional estimation. Sane and rational persons accepted the establishment, embracing its ample teat of opportunity. Indeed, the State was a thing to suckle on, to take comfort in. And the casting of a fuck-you vote was like talking back to your valium-sedated mother who was doing her darned best to just cope with the unending challenges of modern life. That just wasn’t very nice, was it?
Hillary was a symbol… or more accurately, now, she had been a symbol. Dean would have to admit that it was over for Hillary. And though he wouldn’t be the one to stick the proverbial fork up her ass, turn her over… cuz she’s done, somebody would nevertheless have to do it. Maybe Bill, but he was more than likely already busy poking someone else’s ass with his ex-presidential prick. So, anyway, Hillary had been a symbol for the american people. For some, like Dean, she represented the plasticine face of respectable self-sacrificing public service, a real champion of the people, albeit one without any significant accomplishments, unless destroying countries and raping their leaders with a bayonet counts… or maybe just laughing about it on national television could be considered a worthy shit-covered feather in her cap– and that took real balls, and Hillary didn’t mind one bit hanging hers out for all to see. And then to others, those whose sentiments might align more with those of the irascible narrator of this tale, think of Hitlery more as the embodied representation of endless steaming piles of corruption in the politicking whorehouse that is Washington’s vile business on the one day that the sewers completely backed up. (And I’m trying to be nice!)
Dean could never see it that way. Strangely, Dean– the academician– had never learned that in order to actually see, one had to actually look. Go figure.
How could the media have possibly gotten it so wrong? How could the polls be so misaligned with reality? Those primped and coiffed and teleprompted celebrity bobble-heads knew darned near everything! Heck, they presumably even knew why the Kardashians were so consistently popular. Clearly, their databanks were full… so why didn’t they see this coming? It was their constitutional duty to inform righteous folk like Dean of just such impending unpleasantries… before they came to pass. No, this wasn’t right; these election results were uncomfortable; they pressed at the temples of reality’s sudden migraine… and Dean had little sympathy or tolerance when he was forced outside of his comfort zone like this.
It had been ubiquitous, across the entire spectrum of popular media, Hillary’s impending victory. All of the many thousands of independent outlets of news media had agreed– as though with a singular voice, like they all knew the same special secret or something– that the presidency would be hers. And now they were all wrong. Impossible! Something smelled rotten here, but Dean had the discernment skills of a broke one-eyed drunk looking for more liquor. His investigative skills had been squeezed out of him like over-fluoridated toothpaste way back in elementary school, when he mostly only had baby teeth and an unnatural desire to always bite his tongue. Dean absolutely needed the media to tell him what was what… and exactly what he should think about it all. They had failed him… and now he literally didn’t know what to think.
What would his students think? What would they think of him? They positively knew that professor Dean was tongued into the Authority train… and now the kneeling train had gone completely off its rails! Oh, it might be like that day, that day when the impudent boy, that self-proclaimed critical thinker, had marched right into the lecture hall wearing that loathsome ball cap. ‘Trump: Make America great again’ is what it said in all its hateful glory. What could be more vile and pernicious than hate-speech of such an obvious and unmitigated variety? He had asked the boy– politely– to remove the hat and put it away. He had refused, claiming– quite absurdly– that free speech was somehow more important than the possibility of hurting someone’s feelings. And then he started going off about the basic requirements for democracy, and all that… to the dean of the Poli-Sci department, no less! Dean had interrupted him– a little less politely this time, but not much– to ask the boy if he actually intended to vote for the braying orange trumpet. He’d answered no… but not for the reason anyone might possibly ever think. He’d said “No, I don’t vote, lest such reckless behaviour be construed as consent for, or in any way legitimizes, the whole stupid farce of our sham democracy. I won’t be a party to it, nor will I merely pretend to complain about its woeful inadequacies; rather, I’ll fight it to the death!”
Dean hadn’t known what to say to that. How does one prepare for something like that? And now, it might happen again. Surely some, perhaps many, of his students had actually voted for Trump… in clear defiance of professor Dean’s intellectual snobbery. Somewhere the logic of it all had broken down, and now they were all lost together in the land of unforeseeable consequences. America was now officially off-script.
The pundits were calling the election results a wake-up call. But what might a guy like Dean actually wake up to? Was he really expected now to trade a lifetime of happy delusion for a bucket of cold reality and the promise of never sleeping soundly again? People like Dean, folks who are perfectly rational yet utterly impervious to reason, made up perhaps 40% of the country’s population. Judging from the election results, only about half of them had managed to get out and vote. Dean, and all the cardboard cutouts just like him, were now facing an acute crisis, an existential one.
Fortunately, the crisis– that particular one, unique to Dean and his commiserating conformist ilk– didn’t last long though. Right on that very morning that Dean was desperately trying to make sense of those inconceivable election results, there suddenly popped up, on every news site in the free (extorted/exploited) world, some very important breaking news: President-Elect Trump had just been assassinated! This too was rather perplexing for Dean… for it meant that one of his fellow ass-lickers actually owned a gun… and knew how to use it.
How wonderful! Thank God! (Don’t worry; Dean would never ever say the G-word out loud.) And just like that it was pretty much over just as soon as it had begun. Dean imagined that the insipid ‘equilibrium’ of routine american life would assuredly be restored.
Remember, I told you that Dean’s imagination was somewhat lacking in colour, texture and anything resembling accuracy. Immediately after Trump’s assassination, it seemed, all the people who had voted for him– the vast majority of which owned guns, lots and lots of guns– kicked off the American Civil War 2.0. The first thing they did was to go after the magic negro in the White House.
Dean, the magic negro, all of Dean’s children, and nearly all of Dean’s favourite students were dead before the end of the week.
Was America great again? No, not really… but now it had a fighting chance.
by nielskunze on September 17, 2016
(Wonderous Stories by Jon Anderson and Jean-Luc Ponty)
Sirclik had known of Dragons, from folktales and ancient myth. Though he had doubted the veracity of such claims, or alternatively, had thought that they belonged solely to an ancient bygone era, a part of him had always wished them to be true. But even so, he had never held any reasonable expectation of ever meeting one. Yet, here was one of the giants descending upon him, encircling and redirecting an ignominious destiny… for Sirclik, for Dragons, for all the Worlds.
Dragons are matriarchal. It is the female of the race who is the larger, the stronger, the fiercer, and the wiser. The female Dragon has such far distant sight into matters, strategies and fates that she stands unchallenged as the Guardian of Worlds. None would ever think to second-guess her. As she rode the spiral arc of descent to the tiny landing strip where Sirclik lay, he could not help but wonder nevertheless that perhaps she was mistaken, mistaken to ever bother with these dregs of his own draining mortality. What could such a fine majestic beast such as this deem of import with him?
Her dark wings stretched like a canopy over the sea on either side of the land-spit, dampening down the spray and the wind, as she leaned back the full bulk of her mass, coming in to land at Sirclik’s feet. She dragged the salted air with her in a final beat of those wings, sending gusts and rains into his face. It couldn’t be helped, and Sirclik found no insult in the maneuver. Finally, she folded and tucked her wings as best she could at her sides and stood towering over the shivering man half buried in the sand among boulders and the deep black ocean.
Sirclik knew little of protocol. He recalled that only folly chose to look a Dragon directly in the eye. They were glamorous charmers, schooled in hypnotic magicks. A Dragon’s will was said to be second to only the will of the gods. But what was he to do? He had already accepted death once, and that gave him a reckless courage now in this reprieve, as he met the gaze of his new… companion…? tormentor…? master…? guide…? He was determined to find out which.
She seemed to accept his stare as a queen might accept a bow from one of her subjects. In her stare, there was no obvious rebuke, nor was there anything resembling tenderness either. It was an acknowledgement, a greeting; and that in itself seemed to breathe a measure of life back into Sirclik’s being. He would not be made a snack, not on this day at least.
The immediate challenge before them both was now one of language. Sirclik was reasonably familiar with the use of vocalizations, although among the People themselves they were seldom used. Their typical rapport was more in line with telepathy, though not based in words. Theirs was a tight communion, one of knowing the other’s mind… through the shared heart of the tribe. The giant Dragon towering above him however was such a foreign entity that such communion was simply not possible, at least within no reasonable degree of immediacy. Furthermore, Sirclik deduced that a Dragon’s voice was not particularly suited to the articulation of spoken words; it just seemed too farfetched to hope for.
“Greetings,” he said aloud to the world, to the sea, to the Master before him. His voice was soft, broken and unpracticed, but his entreaty reached her ears nevertheless, evidenced by the slight tilt of her head in immediate response.
Her proper reply came as words, telepathically, fired into his brain like arrows or bullets, beyond any recourse to choice. “Forgive the intrusion,” she began, and Sirclik was awed that her discourse should begin with an apology. “Our languaging may pose some difficulties, as we are wholly unknown to each other, and so shall it largely remain. We are neither friend nor foe to the other, but we share a common purpose.” Before the question could even properly arise in his mind, Sirclik felt the indication internally, directed from her, pointing to the egg of strange compulsion within him as the source of this momentary kinship. “I see that I know more of your purpose than even you or your tribe,” she continued. “I shall assist to enlighten and invigorate you to the very limits of your apparent frailty. It is my hope that you are more robust of character than your obvious deficiencies suggest.”
Sirclik truly perceived no insult. The sheer absurdity of the situation precluded any such egotism. His heart swelled with gratitude for the mere hint for assistance. He began assembling appropriate words in his mind for a diplomatic response, but the Dragon commanded that he speak aloud. “It would not be wise,” she explained, “to allow one such as myself full entry into your mind. I will not seek your responses there. You would be irreparably harmed in such a mergence of our cognitive disparity. Speak aloud, into the consensus we share, this place between worlds; my ears are keen. And I, in turn, will continue to place only words within your mental grasp, the gentlest projections I can muster… for you are correct to assume that my vocalizations are not suited to the human tongue.”
It was not lost on Sirclik that she had easily read his thoughts in determining that a Dragon could not physically speak aloud. And now he took comfort in her tacit promise to respect the sovereignty and the frailty of his mind. It seemed that she could easily pick up any outward-directed thought, but respectfully declined from possessing the entirety of his cognitive domain. The insistence that he speak aloud was a clear demarkation of her respectful regard… and that she harbored no desire to destroy him.
“Will you survive the next hundred heartbeats?” she asked, peering down upon the shivering and frail stick-man.
Sirclik nodded and affirmed aloud “Yes,” though his certainty was based more in hope than physical reality.
Without the slightest hesitation, she was airborne again with a practiced leap and the beat of her powerful wings. She disappeared quickly from Sirclik’s sight toward the landmass from whence he had just come.
Sirclik closed his eyes and conserved the very last of his strength, hugging his own remaining body heat in a tight ball with knees drawn up and head buried in forearms and elbows. His quaking breath spilled into his lap in broken gasps resembling sobs, but he could still feel the minuscule heat of a life not quite extinguished. How long he remained thus was impossible to measure; Death was a poor timekeeper. His determination to draw just one more breath rewarded him time and again… until finally the Dragon returned.
Even before landing, she dropped a parcel of deadwood from her huge talons in close proximity to where the frail human still breathed. She circled once more and came in to land, being careful not to churn up too much sea spray that might douse the wood, not to mention the man. She easily arranged the wood into a neat pile and immediately ignited it with her legendary breath.
With the crackle of burning wood, the smell of smoke and the promise of light and heat, Sirclik raised his face to the bonfire, and then crawled within the providence of its warm embrace. He shivered in the dancing light, reaching out his limbs one-by-one to capture the intense heat in all the places it was needed most.
Without a word, the Dragon leapt into the sky again, retracing her flightpath once more. Sirclik was left alone with the soothing fire.
When next she returned, this time she dropped the carcass of an unknown beast on the side of the bonfire across from Sirclik. He gazed upon the dead thing horrified. It was mangled and bloody from the rapacious dexterity of her claws. Then she proceeded to land again just beyond the place where the carcass lay.
“You will eat,” she instructed Sirclik matter-of-factly. In the present context, those three words made no sense to Sirclik. Surely, this could not be considered food. His objections were clear and palpable, hanging in the air unvoiced. The Dragon continued nonplussed. “For the place where you are going,” she inserted into his mind, “this is most appropriate food.” She then proceeded to draw a long talon down the midline of the carcass, eviscerating the beast, spilling its guts in the sand. She scooped those up deftly with her mouth to gulp them down, and then she tore the remainder of muscle meat into manageable chunks for Sirclik, first removing the hide with little effort. “If you roast it in the fire you may find it to be somewhat more palatable. If you can stomach it raw, it will better nourish you and your quest.”
The hunger was insistent. There was little Sirclik could do to fight it other than to heed the dragonly advice already given. He arranged a few parcels of meat around the raging bonfire, allowing them to char and sizzle. The smell, he noticed, wasn’t completely unpleasant. After a time, with the Dragon’s keen insistence, he began to tear the cooked muscle from the bones with his hands and teeth. It was tough and required a great deal of chewing before it could be safely swallowed. It fell heavily into his stomach, squashing the siege of hunger as it had so mercilessly gripped him. In the process, the only life Sirclik had ever known truly and utterly vanished, and now was replaced by the life of this beast violently stolen… and shared with his unlikely companion.
Once the she-Dragon was content that Sirclik was reinvigorated and beyond Death’s immediate grasp, she began to instruct him on the mysteries he still faced. He huddled close to the ample embers of the fire, stealing heat still as the flames and their light diminished.
“Much of my instruction,” she began, “will seem incomprehensible, yet it will be available to you in the future flowering of comprehension.”
There was something about this hollowing-out process that had left Sirclik empty and unknown to himself that now allowed the Dragon’s guidance to fill him up beyond the usual personal identity among the circle of his ancestors. The words, though alien and impenetrable, found space in Sirclik’s psyche like a subtle magick spell. He had given up everything familiar about himself in the pursuit of this quest so that a different kind of hero might arise in place of the mundane. And Sirclik knew none of this; he had no basis to relate to any of it. Just the strange egg buried within him jostled and vibed to the burgeoning song of new adventure.
He settled deeply into a listening posture, preparing for the noxious dialogue that was about to infect his entire being, making room for the disease, welcoming the madness already embraced. He drained the last dregs of liquid from his water-skin to dilute the reality of the digesting beast in his belly. And before she began her crafted oratory, Sirclik had one question to ask of his unlikely benefactor.
“What do I call you?” he asked innocently enough. “What is your name?”
“There is power in names, and destiny intermingles with identity,” she answered curtly. “You will refer to me simply as Dragon. I do not disclose my personal fate to mortals.” It was not a rebuke, rather just a clear line of demarkation, or perhaps a safety valve; what was to follow would flow in only one direction. This was no friendly exchange; this was the battle-plan for worlds in collision… and Sirclik was being briefed for a mission he lacked the tools to even understand.
“There are worlds within worlds within worlds…”
The Dragon’s tutelage lasted for what might be regarded as days in this twilight realm between the proper worlds of creation. She filled him up with the oratory of an incomprehensible lore, citing dire destinies and uncommon need. She further assured him that his future experience would provide the context for eventual understanding of all that which was well beyond him now. Sirclik could only listen and absorb the strange words and concepts as they replaced and overwrote the last echoes of his former identity.
And while he came to embody the Dragon’s gift, he continued to feast upon the flesh of the beast she had provided, regaining his strength, conditioning his resolve. From the hide of the creature, he fashioned himself a cloak and rudimentary footwear according to her instruction. The next leg of the journey would prove to be a challenge to them both, and preparation was essential.
“I will take you to where the ice-shelf begins. Further I dare not venture, for the cold would still my blood despite the fire in my breath. A dragon cannot fare long in winter; perhaps you can.”
Winter was just another concept unfamiliar to Sirclik. He had never experienced such a condition, but the Dragon promised that soon he would understand, as learning would click into context of the journey moving forward. She had filled him with so many odd notions like… like the world of his fated destination being in quarantine… and that it had been seeded by gods and creatures, creators and spies… that it was a time-capsule, like an egg preparing to hatch into a brave new cosmos… that it was a place of intense beauty and jealous cruelty… that her own progeny gestated in the moon… and so on. Sirclik didn’t even have the faintest notion of what a moon might be, but he was nevertheless excited to find out.
And then it was time for their departure. Bundled tightly in animal skins, Sirclik was invited to climb upon the Dragon’s back, and to make camp in the level spot between her shoulder blades. Her scales were just loose enough to allow Sirclik a chance at grasping and holding on, and they were not quite so sharp at their edges to threaten to cut him to pieces. Nevertheless, this next leg of the journey would prove to be somewhat other than comfortable, and definitely precarious, even frightening.
He lay flat on his belly at first, encircling her neck with his arms as best he could. She was much too big for him to clasp his hands at her throat, but he felt reasonably secure when the moment came for the pair to become airborne.
She leapt mightily into the air, unfurling and beating her wings simultaneously. The muscles of her flesh rippled beneath the armor of scales under his belly. He was tossed and jostled by the mere mechanics of the dragon’s flight, but managed to maintain a lifesaving grip as he quickly got used to the constant motion and the constant threat of falling. His face bounced against the unyielding rigidity of her scales; he noticed the typical fetid smell of dragons…
This was an experience! Unimaginable.
Very quickly, any sign of land vanished from sight below them. Now there was only the deep black unending sea… as far as he could see in any direction, roiling and churning in this twilight place. Time was still… rather meaningless, being the measure of change. There was a humbleness, almost an insignificance which blanketed Sirclik’s psyche. He was a mere mote of dust upon the wind… one with a powerful ally and protector. She gently reminded him that he would stand in the remainder of this lifetime upon the fence between humble insignificance and sacred duty. Both sides of the fence would squeeze a new personality from between their vast insistence and constancy.
Finally, there appeared a white streak across the horizon ahead, and beyond it a new source of light. The air had grown markedly chilled and unwelcoming. The Dragon prepared to land by gliding downward at a furious rate of descent. Her body was as cold as a rock beneath him, despite the workings of her muscles, the stoking of her breath. Sirclik clung to her like a doomed sailor to the tip of an iceberg set adrift– though he had no basis for understanding the metaphor… yet.
She skidded unsteadily upon ice and snow, coming in to land. When she came to an abrupt stop in the bank of snow that had gathered around and swallowed her feet, Sirclik was flung suddenly from her back to land in a forward drift. Snow was unknown to him; even ice on such a scale as this was beyond his ability to imagine. In the shock of the cold, he brushed himself off, coming to his feet in a wobbly stance. His muscles were cramped and sluggish beneath the protection of animal skin wrapped around his soul.
He was again filled with questions but couldn’t settle on a single one. The Dragon answered him all the same, reminding him that she had already given him what she could. It was obvious to Sirclik that the environment was extremely hostile to his benefactor… and friend, and she was eager to get away to safety.
“You are three days away from the barrier,” she told him. “Once you cross it– and I have no idea what that might be like or even if it may be accomplished– you will belong to the World called Earth. Remember, it is an anagram for heart… encircled in ice. Follow the yellow light ahead, during the day; rest at night. The stars in the sky are the creator gods looking on, influencing in subtle delight. The Sun is the son of the Infinite Designer of the space for all the Worlds. His Life is given to all whom venture here. He is invested in you– and all you meet– completely. When the Life of the son is dimmed, the moon shall hatch, and all the world of Earth will likewise hatch as One… to herald the new beginning of cosmic communion. Fare thee well.”
Mostly it was more gibberish to Sirclik, yet her final speech rang with an undeniable nobility inside him. He stood before her, still awed and silent. Tears representing unknown, complex emotions rolled down his cheeks… as she was the witness to his resolve. Barely above the level of a whisper he managed to say “Thank you.”
She bowed her head to him– a most unlikely gesture– and then imparted one last tidbit before again taking to the air, headed for warmer climes. She said “I am Lizabeth.”
And then she was gone.
(The Prophet by Yes from their 1970 album Time and a Word)
to be continued soon…
by nielskunze on September 3, 2016
1. The Outskirts
The arms of the People wrapped around Sirclik; they reached through him. They touched him deeply, just as they always had, coddling and comforting him. Sirclik felt the whole love of the People as the main part of himself. But there was a place, yes, a place, deep inside that was like an egg, small with a life of its own, protected by a hard shell, defending an integrity that Sirclik himself did not understand. And the People did not understand… this place inside their brother that they could not touch.
Sirclik stood alone, more alone than he had ever been in his life, in the great shadow of the One Tree. He had never ventured out of sight of the One Tree; no one had, at least not in the recent memory of the People. The Tree, which cradled the life of all the known worlds, towered impossibly above the Land, reaching to the very heavens. That life could even exist outside of its shadow, beyond its infinite care, seemed dubious to Sirclik, but the strange ‘egg’ nested inside him urged him to contemplate the impossible, to seek it out with all the fervor of his life.
The People didn’t understand, but they were with him, at least for now, as he stood at the known edge of Reality. They weren’t here physically, just in spirit, as the better part of Sirclik’s heart. They would support him as best they could on this strange and compelling journey into the unknown…
This was the Outskirts, the untamed and largely uncharted periphery of the only home Sirclik had ever known. Already he was beyond any previous wanderings his restless life had prompted. None of the People had been to these places, or especially beyond, for many many generations. But the strange ‘egg’ inside Sirclik’s fiery constitution bristled and threatened with the prospect of hatching and beginning a life of its own, and this unprecedented journey was an attempt to pre-empt such a possibility. He was answering a call from within… one that did not originate in his own familiar being though, nor was it sourced in the collective of his tribe. It was a calling from an alien world, one that had been secretly seeded within him… and there appeared to be no choice but to answer the call.
The sun that circled around the uppermost branches of the One Tree ducked in and out of view, casting long shadows to the very Outskirts, alternating with the dimming twilight brought about by atmosphere and distance. Regal and majestic forests gave way to grasslands and scrub as the far distant light defined its own life-giving limits. Sirclik journeyed in the half-light of an ambiguous topography, this transitional place between everything that was safe, secure and reliably known… and all that was unconsidered, uncharted and strangely provocative.
With every step of uncountable miles, he felt ever more the stranger to himself. As the Land presented itself in unfamiliar guises, as lifeforms uncatalogued and alien, Sirclik felt diluted or emptied, as though every memory he had cherished for a lifetime was being plucked from him with each adventurous step. He was being hollowed out by this renegade choice to meet an unknown fate head-on.
The ever-present comfort of the People, their unshakable presence in his heart, felt now like a distant whisper carried upon indifferent winds. It was as though his inner reality was being stretched and thinned, faded to near nothingness. He understood now why such journeys as these were so seldom undertaken; the price was his very humanity. How would he endure this hollowing out? What would he truly be once empty and unknown even to himself?
The inner accompanying gaze of his People was finally like a slit of eyes in a far-off thicket, squinting and bobbing to maintain a clear line of sight to his distant heart. Sirclik felt for the first time that the communal eye of the People might finally close at any moment, and that he would be utterly, devastatingly alone. And in that frightening thought, he felt something new, something that had only been spoken of in whispers, quite infrequently, and as though it might not even be true. He felt the physical sensation of this emptiness, this isolation; he felt it as hunger.
The People seldom ate. With their hearts so filled with each other in peaceful communion, they knew no lack. They were sated with everything they needed to fully experience their tribe and their place within it. The only reason they ever had to eat was for novelty and pleasure and to share experience with the lifeforms they ingested, all by invitation and mutual agreement, of course. No one had ever truly known hunger as anything more than a mild curiosity… for a novel experience.
But now Sirclik felt a hunger that was more akin to pain. The Elders had warned him that such would be the case. It had been beyond his ability to imagine, and now it suddenly consumed nearly his whole attention. The hunger seemed to belong to the tiny ‘egg’ within him; it was not his own. Like the egg itself, this hunger was not an integrated part of him. It was something foisted upon him, something foreign, like a ceremonial costume of a far distant tribe, donned in deference and polity. But it could not be cast off or ignored. It throttled his mind with such strange insistence.
Sirclik knelt in the sparse grass. He stooped to smell the life within the meagre blades. Finally, he succumbed to the need to eat and began grabbing handfuls, asking permission of course, but scarcely able to hear such acquiescence given, given as it was.
The grasses of the outlying lands were tough, rugged and sweet. And they were eager to share of Sirclik’s esoteric quest, giving themselves unto it. He chewed the juices from them, relying on some ancient instinct, and then spat greenish fibrous wads, spent and empty, into the dirt as mulch. The juices were good, and seemed to quell the rumbles in his tummy, like water on a fire. After a dozen handfuls or more, the hunger had finally been quieted.
He thanked the Land for its timely assistance, gaining his feet again, and resumed the journey to nowhere.
How long Sirclik journeyed was difficult to measure. In the Land of his People, day had never known the absoluteness of night. As the sun circled the One Tree at its uppermost reaches, there were just the instances of shadow and twilight, but nothing ever resembling true darkness. The sun was far or near, but never absent. But here, now, in the badlands of the Outskirts, the sun was just a smudge of light in the sky, far away and fading fast.
Ahead lay lands seemingly made from dark shadows. Even the horizon behind him was a dirty yellow ribbon stretched across a grey expanse. Turning forward again, Sirclik noticed that the air had a briny smell, and that perhaps there was water lying ahead, dark and foreboding in the half-light. The Elders had told him of the sea, a place where the waters filled one’s entire view. It was salty and mysterious… straight ahead.
He had never been to the shoreline, not like this. It had only ever been a fairytale meant to baffle and confuse. Indeed, he had known of lakes and ponds, but always had there lain more land beyond their distant shores, in sight, in certitude. But now, as far as he could see, there were waves piled upon waves, stretching to a black infinity.
This presented Sirclik with a problem. He couldn’t very well dive in and begin swimming without a clear destination in sight. Such folly would be his death for sure. But the impish little egg inside him still urged him on. Somewhere beyond the impossible sea lay his unreasonable goal, he was sure. But how to get there, he hadn’t a clue.
At the water’s edge he stopped a moment to feel inside for the guidance of the People, for the wisdom of the Elders, but that once-sure connection was nearly imperceptible now. He felt them more as only a memory and not the familiar companionship that he and all his kin had ever taken for granted in these lifetimes… woven together in unbroken community.
No clear inner guidance was forthcoming. He squinted through the dimness and the humidity and thought that perhaps he saw a spit of land off to his left jutting out into the sea. It was a ways off, but provided the only reasonable destination in the current circumstances, if indeed he was seeing true. Perhaps there was a land bridge bisecting the waters, able to take him to the very ends of his courage and wit.
A time later he stood at the mouth of the spit, a narrow strip of land leading out into the dark waters of a chilling destiny. He could not see clearly ahead to where the land might end, or even that it did. It all came to a point where the blackish waters of the sea merged with the very same blackness of the land dimming from sight. Sirclik’s perspective could not discern the way ahead, and yet there was no other reasonable direction to go. He marched onward upon a rocky sliver of hope, this meagre arrow of sparse grassland, finally giving way to only rock and more rock… narrow and bleak.
He was hungry again. He had completely forgotten about it until the very moment it arrived. And then the hunger, its need, seemed to make him suddenly weak. He would not go back. Sirclik stumbled over and around wet boulders, growing cold, as the sea raged on either side of his treacherous path. He could not allow himself to wonder what he might’ve gotten himself into. It was his only goal to continue to the limits of his strength and will. Besides, there was naught else to realistically do.
Eventually, propped between two boulders, panting and reclining, Sirclik found the end of his strength. He was just another shadow now, hollowed out from all that had once filled him, contented him, a featureless shell of a man, empty, except for the egg. He was useless now as its champion, its guardian, its caretaker. Sirclik wondered what it might be like to die alone, isolated from the People, severed from their living community.
Was this foolishness all his own? Or was the egg the very seed of foolishness surreptitiously sown, or laid within him for no true purpose? It seemed so wrong to Sirclik that all should come to naught like this… at the end of his strength, and the purpose still unknown.
He shivered and shook. His teeth chattered. He wriggled down deeper into the wet sand between the rocks, digging himself into what land there was. If he was going to die, at least he would connect himself to the Land, however it presented itself. The ground was always connected to the entirety of the Land, the ground in which the One Tree was rooted, and through its Life, connected all the Worlds. He grabbed handfuls of sand and tipped his head back to look at the charcoal sky, to see if he could still distinguish the uppermost branches of the giant One Tree in the distance… But no, it had probably fallen from view long ago. He saw nothing now but grey and shadow, smudged in deathly tones of a life rubbed out. He was as cold as the sea… as still as a rock… his last breath escaping as a gentle mist…
And the last glimmer of life in his eye fixed suddenly upon a silhouette in the sky, an impossible silhouette! He drew another breath… and another. There was nothing left inside him to think on this… for what might Sirclik think anyway? There simply was no context for comprehending such a sight. What could it mean? What ever could it possibly mean that a mighty Dragon circled toward him?
Sirclik was suddenly determined to live as long as it might take to find out.
(Ludvig & Sverker piano version by Beardfish)
…to be continued soon…
by nielskunze on August 23, 2016
Prior Episodes of Running Dialogue:
Third Time’s The Charm
Fourth Movement… Forth
Eighth Wonder of the World
Ninth Life of Schrödinger’s Cat
Tenth of One Percent
Eleventh Dream of Seventh Heaven
Twelfth Tribe of the Ancient Sorcerers
(As The World by Echolyn)
“To shake your head as the world just nods away.”
“There is a principle which is a bar against all information, which is proof against all arguments and which cannot fail to keep a man in everlasting ignorance– that principle is contempt prior to investigation.” ~ Herbert Spencer
“Create a belief in the theory and the facts will create themselves.” ~ Joseph Jastow
God in a Bottle
Eeny… meanie… money… mine…
Catch a godling in his mind.
Fee Fi Fo Fum
God is under his own thumb.
Even before we got off the mountain, quick on the heels of our visit to the Magick Cave, I knew that I would be returning, probably solo, and likely sooner than later. This first introduction to the living remnants of true Earth magick had really been Felix’s gig. I felt like I had been permitted to tag along. But there was something there inside that cave that was specifically for me.
That conversation with Teal and Phaedrus belonged to Felix. The cave had been answering his need. I’m not sure that I would’ve heard anything of that dialogue had I not been there with Felix. I didn’t know what mystery the cave held for me in particular, but I knew that I would be coming back to find out.
As usual, as we sidled down the steep mountain slope, I sought to engage Felix in conversation. He had this wonderful knack for blowing my mind wide open– when he wasn’t putting the barrel of a gun next to my head. I swear my ears were still ringing from that bizarre escapade!
“So how am I to regard the appearance of the Fae?” I asked. “Was that real? Was that just fantasy? Hallucination? Were we again in the brainwave pattern of the second attention? Or was that some kinda astral trip?”
“Definitely not astral,” answered Felix. “I’d say that was well rooted in the etheric energy realm.” I wanted to know clearly how Felix distinguished between the astral realm and the etheric, so I asked him to explain the difference to me, and he continued. “The etheric realm is the invisible energy realm which underpins our existence in the physical. It may be identical with what is modernly referred to as the morphogenic field. Every living thing possesses its own etheric body, the specific energy configuration supporting its physical form. That etheric body, though distinct, is further tied into the planetary energy body along with all other living things. That is what makes up the etheric realm of Earth. It is theoretically possible that beings exist within Earth’s etheric reality which do not manifest in the same physical plane as we do, or perhaps having no current physical expression at all. The Fae would seem to fit within that category.” I had something to say about etheric bodies, memories from my far distant youth, but Felix was determined to continue on.
“The astral realm, on the other hand, is a place of creative mentation, without much in way of rules or even convention. Some might say that it is a place of pure fantasy… while others insist that order indeed exists within the astral abyss somewhere beyond the immediate phantasmagoria. It is the physical human, imbued with divine imagination, which underpins the astral reality. It can be said, and I happen to agree, that the astral is an outward projection of human creative imagination. More than mere daydreaming though, astral entities, archetypes and principalities assume lives of their own in the universality of self-preservation.” I had some things that I wanted to say about this too, but Felix wasn’t quite finished. He continued.
“If we say that the human– along with his living companions– occupies the 3rd position, also known as our familiar 3D existence, then the astral occupies the 4th position– and possibly beyond– outwardly, as reality projects itself through the human being in never-ending expansion. The etheric realm then occupies the 2nd position, inwardly, in such a manner that the physical human may be considered the outward projection of that energy template. The 1st position, inwardly, is of course occupied by Source– the potential for all to exist in unmanifest non-differentiation, or unstructured consciousness.”
“Whoa! That got pretty heavy pretty fast,” I quipped.
“I knew you could handle it,” replied Felix with a wink. “You were going to say something…?” he prompted me.
“Just recalling a fond memory from my youth. I was maybe four, definitely no older than five, and I remember sitting at the kitchen table staring at the thumb and index finger of my left hand. My hand was sideways so that both my index finger and my thumb were closest to me.” I held up my hand to demonstrate to Felix. “I would bring the tip of my finger into close proximity to the tip of my thumb while allowing my eyes to unfocus. I could see a faint smoky blue sheath of translucent energy surrounding my fingertips. And at a certain point when I brought them together– but not touching– the energy sheath around my finger would suddenly jump and merge with the energy sheath around my thumb, forming a bridge between them. I was playing around to determine the distance between my thumb and finger at which the bridge would spontaneously form. It was a happy memory, at least until my older brother sat down across the table from me and asked what I was doing. I explained it to him as I demonstrated it to myself again. He promptly informed me that I couldn’t actually see what I was describing… and lo and behold, from that moment on I could no longer see my own energy body. I’ve always regarded that smoky blue subtle body as an etheric double which interpenetrates my physical being and extends slightly beyond. It’s something distinct from auras ‘cause I was never able to see auras. I suspect that auras might belong more to astral perception,” I finished up.
“How did you know about the unfocusing of your eyes? That’s a hard skill to teach.”
“Tell me about it! I can’t really do it anymore. As a kid, it just came naturally. There just didn’t seem to be the same urgency then to keep reality so strictly dialed in. I relaxed my gaze often… and I remember that I saw the most interesting things when I did. It was kinda self-reinforcing… until my brother told me that it was utterly impossible to see such things.”
“Yup, we police each other relentlessly to make sure we’re all tuned in to the same gross perception… and the unique and interesting details from our youthful innocence get systematically weeded out. In the realms of perception we tend to be hopeless conformists.”
We both nodded in commiseration. We were nearly down the mountainside and not too far from camp.
We were lucky enough to stumble upon this beauty, Strawberry Blite. That was only the second time I’d found it. What looks like a blight is really just the plant’s normal flowering. It’s one of my all-time favs!
“What’s it taste like?” asked Felix sceptically.
“Almost exactly like beets, earthy and sweet, but with little seeds like strawberries.”
“Beets? Ah, not a fan. It’s all yours.”
I stripped the flowers from the stem, staining my fingertips bright red. Yup, it was as good as I remembered. I savoured the taste a moment and then we moved on. I turned the conversation to some lighter fare.
I wanted to turn momentarily away from the woo-woo world and peer into the more mundane aspects of social and political transformation– if even such a thing was possible. I expressed my impatience with the slow chaotic meltdown of our insane society, knowing that Felix would have something ‘good’ to say about it.
“You want a prediction?” asked Felix with venom and barbs. “I’ll give you a prediction,” he said, planting his walking stick in the dirt, gathering unto himself a greater credibility with his tripodal stance, like the Lawgiver with his staff. “A watershed moment is coming… and I think it will first become visible in the political sphere. There’s going to be a revelation, a reckoning, one that catches just about everyone off guard. And it’s going to be global– not just the local fallout from the US election debacle. And you know what’s going to be revealed? The public’s own profound ignorance, that’s what! Maybe it’ll start with the dissection of that slimy octopus The Clinton Foundation… or maybe somewhere else entirely, unseen yet undeniable. There’s a thousand festering boils all coming to a head… and the lancing of one will immediately drain the puss from them all. The public, the world over, will come to a sudden and shattering realization that nothing of common political discourse for generations has had any basis in reality whatsoever. It’s all carefully layered deceptions, without even a shred of truth lending validity. Politics is the commerce of lies. We’ve all known it for generations, and yet we pretend– even insist– that we ourselves can know the truth. These are the most unconscionable deceivers the world has ever known… and they have agencies and entire industries backing their incessant spin-doctoring. But even the nuggets and morsels that get spun into outrageous narratives are vapid, empty fabrications themselves. There’s no substance. None. And that’s going to suddenly become apparent to everyone on Earth in the course of a few days. I don’t know the truth; nobody I know knows the truth. In the decades-old climate of compartmentalization, coverup and plausible deniability, there’s no one on the face of the Earth who actually knows what’s going on. Oh sure, there’s a master plan; there’s actually more than a hundred of them! I’ve had my fingers in a few… and after thirty years of meticulous skullduggery, I haven’t a clue which masters I’ve served, or which I’ve thwarted… or whether I’ve affected any cause at all. It’s a fucking mess… and that’s the god’s-honest truth.”
The irony wasn’t lost on me… that Felix was basically saying that the truth of the matter was that average Joe Citizen was utterly helpless in trying to discern the truth of his political situation. The best that anyone could do, I inwardly concluded, was to gather as many perspectives as possible, and to hold them in mind as mere possibilities. The trick would be to invest one’s belief in none of them, if indeed one felt a strong desire to enter into the political farce at all.
And that kinda did it for the everyday world of the average earthling: it was an indecipherable mess. I had no argument, so I shifted gears once again.
“What about all this ‘higher frequency’ stuff?”
“What about it?”
“Do you think there’s anything to it? Are we being bathed in and penetrated by some galactic high vibes on some cosmic schedule? Or is that just more New Age fabrication?”
Felix pondered for a moment. “I wish I could measure it, or at least know how to measure such a thing.” He shrugged. “But I can’t dismiss it altogether… mostly because I feel it. There’s something external and unseen that’s prodding us. Maybe we created it ourselves. But whatever it is– this higher frequency– it’s nothing like the New Agers would have us believe.”
“It’s not supportive. It’s irritating, destructive even. It’s a polarizing frequency. It pushes us to our personal limits… and then it’s up to us to break on through those barriers we find ourselves up against. It’s designed to drive us crazy, so we can see all the places crazy has been. It’s a provocation like a gun to the head that says ‘Evolve or die.’ There’s no comfort in this high vibe. It’s like a sweltering sun during a heatwave; it makes you seek out the shade, just for the sake of survival. It poisons and taints everything external, making familiar comforts uncomfortable. Ultimately, it drives us inward, to seek solace in ourselves– in our own self-reliance, in our freedom to be as we are. It strips us naked of all the illusions we’ve gathered over lifetimes. No, it’s not there to coddle us, or fix us, or entrain us to a new reality. It’s here to destroy us– our cherished delusions– and all of the prisons we’ve built. If it’s love, it’s the toughest love there is, the kind I’d expect from Lucifer himself.”
“Will it ever stop?”
“Nope. It’ll always be there… getting more and more intense, for the outward-seeking eye. It’s as though external reality has an expiry date; all the old structures and materials get too hot to handle, so we’re forced to bring in the absolutely new, from our innermost knowing. Now that’s evolution!”
And with that, we were back at camp again and it was starting to get dark. We were both hungry, so Felix got busy building a fire as I rustled up some pasta and a pot of water. Wild onions and puffballs were easy to find, even in the half-light. It wouldn’t be fancy, but it would definitely be good.
Over dinner, Felix reopened the conversation, kind of chastising me for the relative superficiality of my most recent queries. “Don’t you have something more meaty you’d like to discuss?”
I wasn’t sure if that was a subtle jab at the lack of meat in our dinner, but I took the question at face value and tried to think what I REALLY wanted to ask Felix. He was obviously in the mood to be accommodating and forthcoming. After a moment’s pause I dove straight into the heart of the matter.
“What prompts a lifelong Mossad agent to defect anyway? And while we’re at it, how is something like that even remotely possible? I mean, there’s gotta be some serious safeguards against agents going rogue. I’d think that’s about the most intolerable situation of all for the puppet-masters and string-pullers. How’d you manage it?”
Felix was smiling widely. I could tell that he liked my question. And as I was to find out before the night was over, the answer to that question would open up the gnarliest can of worms ever!
“I think I’ll tell you a story,” he began slowly, “one from my training days more than thirty years ago.” He paused to poke the stray embers in the fire and to organize the tale in his mind. “I have a lot of secrets, but honestly, the inevitability of my eventual defection was clear to me even before I had begun my training in earnest. This is a tale I’ve scarcely told.”
He leaned back into the cool shadows and began. “You don’t really decide for yourself one day that you’re going to be a spy. Those who would decide that for themselves usually make for really bad spies. I was eighteen years old and military service was mandatory in Israel. Like most of the other young men my age, I was determined to make the best of it. I’d already figured out that fighting the inevitable was just plain stupid. So I showed up to basic training with a good attitude; that already had me cast in a favourable light… at least among those who watch from the shadows.
“Physically, I was really only average. I could keep up well enough to the physical challenges, but it was my mental stamina and dexterity which finally set me apart. You have to understand that the main purpose of basic training in any military is to break a soldier’s spirit, to break his independent will. And the basic-training staff knows this all too well… and I wasn’t easily broken. So there were a couple of months of real hell, where my superiors threw everything at me to shatter my resolve to essentially remain myself and not become just another toy in their army playpen. The irony is that the ones who prove themselves to be rather bomb-proof end up being selected for special service. When I clandestinely received my invitation from Mossad, I jumped on it, and the rest of the guys in basic training were left to assume that I’d finally been kicked out or had found the foolish gumption to desert. Yeah, I took a stab at the life being offered.
“Mossad special training is really a whole other deal, completely separate from regular military. We were assigned individual rooms in large dormitories, where there was little to nothing in the way of communal life. The compartmentalization begins on day one. Mossad ain’t no kibbutz.
“I was lucky to have gotten in. New recruit training sessions had already been underway for several weeks, but a spot opened up in the barracks apartment building due to a sudden departure. I showed up to the Registrar’s a few hours earlier than expected and asked for the key to my new place. The Registrar didn’t see any reason why not… to let me get settled in and comfortably oriented. I got my key: Room 1433.
“From the outside, the barracks building looked like a regular cheap apartment building, but no balconies, just a crap load of windows. It looked to be about twenty stories high. When I stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for the fourteenth floor I noticed immediately that there was no thirteen. It had been omitted. Of course that meant that I would be living on the ACTUAL thirteenth floor even though it was labelled as the fourteenth. I found that to be amusingly absurd.
“The tiny room was easy enough to find, but as I stood in front of it I noticed that the door was slightly ajar. It wasn’t even locked! Oh well. As its new occupant I barged right in… only to find that the previous tenant hadn’t quite vacated it yet. And even more surprisingly, that the former occupant was an asian woman. I really wasn’t expecting that.
“She was gathering the last of her things; a cardboard box sat open on the tiny desk. I had startled her, but when I met her gaze, it seemed that her eyes held a more genuine enduring fear, subtle and yet insistent. I don’t remember exactly how the conversation went, but it went the direction of why she was leaving. When I verbalized the question, she couldn’t answer. Those black eyes said that there was too much to tell. Fair enough, and I’m just some stranger, after all.
“‘Come, I want to show you something,’ she suddenly said, grabbing a notepad and a pen from the box. She pushed the box aside to make room for herself and for me to peer over her shoulder, as she started telling me a story, complete with illustrations. It went something like this…
“Well, the first thing she did was write across the top of the page a simple formula, a mathematical equation. I know, right? An asian woman… and here we are doing math on the first date! There was no preamble to this, no explanation, no context given, but she dove straight into this scenario right out of a physics class or something.
“Alice, Bob, Cameron and David live on a giant magic ball– she’s telling it with this really cute accent though. Anyway, Alice lives at the shoreline of a small lake 2 miles across. Bob lives on an island halfway across the lake. Cameron lives a mile past the island on the far shore directly across from Alice and Bob. David has a boat and some infallible measuring devices for measuring the curvature of the ball that they all live upon.”
I shuffled nervously in my seat and looked unflinchingly at Felix. I was just about to object to where this appeared to be heading, but he quickly resumed the tale to pre-empt me.
“Leaving one of the infallible measuring devices with Alice, David rows his boat from Alice’s shoreline out to Bob on the island a mile away. When he arrives on the island he radios back to Alice to ask how far over the horizon– vertically– he is according to the device. Alice informs him that he is 8 vertical inches over the horizon from her perspective. David turns on another of the devices and hands it to Bob, and has him confirm that the infallible device indicates that Alice is also 8 vertical inches over Bob’s horizon there on the island. Alice and Bob are in perfect agreement, which is also in agreement with the mathematical calculation.
“Then, David rows his boat the next mile to Cameron on the far shoreline. When he arrives, he radios back to Bob on the island to ask how far over the horizon he is. Bob confirms the expected answer of 8 inches. This makes sense to David, as the second mile was identical to the first mile, so 8 inches in the first mile and 8 inches more in the second mile. Next, David radios Alice and is somewhat perplexed to find out that he is now 32 inches over Alice’s horizon. He checks the math and finds that it is indeed correct. The device he has given to Cameron confirms that Alice’s device is 32 vertical inches over the horizon and 2 miles away. Bob, who has been listening in on the radio chatter is really perplexed. He can confirm that Alice is 8 inches over the horizon a mile away in one direction, and Cameron is 8 inches over the horizon a mile away in the opposite direction. But Alice and Cameron are 32 inches over each other’s horizon!?? That doesn’t really make much sense to Bob, so he asks David what the device on the rowboat reads for the amount of curvature experienced during the entire two-mile journey, and the infallible device indicates 0 curvature experienced. David begins to wonder whether the infallible measuring devices are in fact malfunctioning because it just doesn’t seem to add up. But no, all of the values given are absolutely correct.
“She said it twice,” Felix emphasized, “that all of the values given were absolutely correct. And that was the story she chose to tell me in that brief moment of our first and only meeting… as though it was the damnedest thing ever.”
“As far as stories go,” I reckoned, “it’s not that great.”
“That’s what I thought!” agreed Felix. “The whole thing was surreal and seriously absurd– not so much the contents of her tale, though the math seemed kinda wonky, but rather that she chose to tell me this with genuine concern and palpable fear… all in answer to what I thought was an innocuous question!
“She kept looking at me imploringly with those big black eyes… and before I could ask her for something– anything– in the way of further explanation, there was an abrupt knock on the door which was still mostly ajar. There in the open doorway stood a uniformed security guard… military police? I don’t know. He curtly told the asian woman that he was there to escort her out… away? I don’t remember exactly what he said. She nodded to him in acquiescence and turned sharply to me. I reached for the box on the desk and said ‘Your things…’ And she said matter-of-factly ‘Those are yours.’ I mumbled something in agreement as I read a definitive question in her eyes. The fear had been put into words and it asked ‘Am I about to be taken out back and shot?’ And then she turned and left with her escort. And I was left with a quirky math problem and a box of her belongings. Weird.”
“So what was in the box?” I asked as though the story might yet be salvageable.
“The only interesting contents were some photocopies of some really old historic documents, maybe letters or memoirs, but only fragments. Two of them I found to be of significant interest.” Here Felix reached into his pocket to access his wallet.
“What? You keep them on you?”
“I knew that one day we’d have this conversation. These are just copies of the photocopies.” He handed me two sheets of paper freshly unfolded. “I also corrected the archaic spellings in most cases. As near as I can tell they were originally written in english, though that’s about the last thing I’d expect. Have a look.”
They were a bit difficult to penetrate upon first perusal, but I could immediately see where they tied in with the story. This is what I read:
In close order, and with permission, in collusion and established abidance with the Byzantine Entente (1454), and incursionary to the borders of the Orient under the esteemed Elders, let it come to pass that troublesome recreants of the whole Earth shall imminently receive by agency of Divine Authority in scientific craft, demonstrations and proofs steeped in esoteric maths to confabulate all position in body and mind pertaining to the common conceptualization of Home. Henceforth, apostates and magi alike will suffer the confusion of directional orientation and profound dislocation when practicing their traditional arts upon the Good Earth. Furthermore, in the subordinate mind, behind a veil of Absolute secrecy to the very Self, the inaccommodation of collective and common experience for the sharing of multiple perspective and indeed common sense will be achieved with the willful acceptance of the spherical world as the New Ground of Being. The desired resultant can be reliably shown as a fractious and ineffectual psyche unable to act in communal defiance henceforth. Individual isolation together with a protracted period of fierce competitiveness shall ensue in ubiquity among men, within men, and indeed shall it prevail upon the whole Earth until such time that the globular infection becomes thoroughly dismantled in the subordinate mind once again, and consequently, finally, underfoot, in centuries hence… by the will of Divine Authority.
-Brother Scribe Fernando of The Alumbrados, Seville, 1490
And the second one:
Luthor D’Magus (Rus’ 1143): North layeth the inmost pode of naught dimension. South be the circumferal antipode, directionally; and maximally distant as the length of the radius ascribed. West turns the deosil arc, East the widdershins same. Up is always up, and down forever down. Inward is in the contemplation of the dimensionless northern pode, and outward lies everywhere beyond the southern antipode. Thus ruleth the directions for local magicks. And, in the works of collective sorceries beyond the circle of the world, the convention of a consensus be agreed upon– all ye magi– for the designation of cardinal points outside the magick circle. And all within the circle be ye oriented to the same inmost pode. And thus whirls the conjuring of universal magicks proper. Fare thee well.
I nodded to Felix with the papers still in hand. “Okay, I kinda get it,” I said hesitantly. “But really? REALLY? Do we really have to go there?”
Felix laughed a good hearty genuine laugh and said “Yup. Welcome to the f–”
“Don’t say it!” I interjected. “Just don’t say it. Give me some time to think on this. That this is the answer to my question about your inevitable defection… is truly bizarre. But yeah… I get it. I get it,” I kept insisting.
Felix was obviously pleased. I think he was just glad for the intellectual company. He must have suffered a strange isolation these last 30 years. I told him that I would take the information to bed with me and we could discuss it the next day.
“That is precisely what I want,” he said. “I have no desire to tell you outright what to think about all this. I’d rather hear what you might make of it without the poison of my own interpretation. But let me add just one more thing… and this doesn’t come from any obscure historical sources. It’s just something I heard a long time ago that instantly made sense. It is this:
“Thoughts are electrical, emotions magnetic.”
It was fully dark now. We let the fire burn out and retired to bed. I took a teaspoon of kratom to quash my restless mind, knowing that I wouldn’t be able to sleep with lightning striking in my brain all night. Kratom worked to smooth out all of my disturbances in both body and mind. I slept well.
The older I get the more difficult I find it to sleep past 6:00 am. I was up with the sun as Felix elected to properly sleep in. I needed some alone-time anyway, and I do my best contemplating in the early part of the day. And here I should point out that contemplation is about my favourite activity in the whole world– better than sex, if you ask me.
The raptors can read my mind, it seems. For some reason, I was expecting Eagle to attend these contemplations but wasn’t surprised when Vulture showed up… almost hovering impossibly motionless right above me.
Vulture’s gaze looks to a new vision…
I had my laptop to check the basic math and verify a few things. I quickly saw how volatile was the topical arena I was entering. I understood almost immediately that the subject which had been broached by Felix’s stupid little story was about the most contentious subject on the entire internet! Huh, who knew?
What I further discovered was that there was so much here for thought and speculation. There was so much to unpack and consider! After about five hours I was ready to make my initial report back to Felix.
“Good morning,” I greeted Felix as he emerged from the tent. It was already past eleven, so the statement was still true for only a little while longer. He muttered and nodded, said something about coffee, and came over to revive the fire. I put the kettle on for him, realizing again that I was much more of a morning person than was he.
“So what’ve you got for me?” he asked as we waited for the fire to rev back up.
“Almost too much,” I had to admit. “It’s an overwhelming topic… which, I guess, brings up the first really important point I’d like to make. Well, two points, really. The first is about open-mindedness in general. Very simply, open-mindedness is about entertaining alternative possibilities. There’s no requirement to invest any belief or even any emotion in those new possibilities. The only thing that can be lost in any open-minded inquiry is close-mindedness itself. Everything else is pure profit.” Felix nodded his agreement.
“The second thing– and this cannot be overstated– is that if we are to grant the possibility of a non-spherical Earth, the very first thing we must do is grant that such a consideration necessarily means that a massive deception is involved. And, I’ll add, that there must be a very powerful motivation for initiating and perpetuating such an enormous fraud… right into our modern technological age.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” said Felix. The kettle was boiling. He retrieved it from the leaping flames with a sturdy stick. Then, using his sleeve as an oven mitt, he poured the water into the coffee bodum. “It’s certainly not a subject to be taken lightly, or, as is quite often the case, dismissively.”
“Exactly,” I said. “To consider the topic at all, absolutely demands a deeply ponderous inquiry. Dabblers and ‘two-minute debunkers’ need not bother; they are a service to no one. Now, having said that, I’m not exactly qualified to unravel the whole tangled yarn with a mere five hours of cursory research and these contemplative beginnings. I will say that I’m fascinated and that there are intriguing implications with deep historic reverberations involved with what you shared with me yesterday. The asian woman was actually brilliant in delivering that almost innocuous-seeming story as she did. In just a couple of minutes, she busted the topic wide open, and pointed directly to the heart of the matter.”
“And what do you feel is the true heart of the matter?” Felix was sipping his coffee now and settling into the rapture of a promising discussion.
“Let’s call it the inherent problems with multiple perspectives while residing on a sphere. Some interesting things begin to happen when you have three or more perspectives living on the same sphere.
“So the first thing I did this morning was to check the mathematical formula given for the asian woman’s story. As near as I can tell, that’s the Rowbotham formula, and is generally accepted as correct. Interestingly though, when I typed ‘curvature of earth’ into Google, I wasn’t immediately directed to Wikipedia as I’d expected. I’m so used to Wikipedia coming up first on the page for any science-related searches. Not so this time. Eventually I did confirm that the eight-inches-per-mile-squared formula is generally accepted by mainstream science– Stephen Hawking included.
“Now, the interesting perspective in the story is Bob’s, looking from the island in the middle of the lake. Alice is 8 inches over the horizon in one direction, while Cameron is 8 inches over the horizon in the opposite direction… and yet they– Alice and Cameron– are 32 inches over the horizon from each other, exactly twice what Bob might expect. And if we want to take the same scenario to an extreme, imagine 25,000 volunteers aligned along the equator at exactly one mile intervals. The arc of curvature is identical for each and every mile between them. They will all, of course, measure the same 8-inch vertical curvature between themselves and the nearest volunteer. If we tally the results: 25,000 times 8 inches per one-mile arc is a little over three miles… which falls short of the accepted value by a little less than 16,000 miles (twice the diameter of the sphere is the total vertical displacement due to curvature in one circumnavigation).
“So each person can accurately calculate the total curvature independently and individually from their own perspective, but they cannot share the task with others and arrive at a reasonable answer collectively. In terms of experiencing the curvature of living on a sphere, perspective becomes separated, isolated. Common sense breaks down, and with it, conscience.”
Felix raised an eyebrow at that but allowed me to continue.
“The next interesting thing I found was that living on the surface of a sphere is reasonably supportive of a binary system. When you have only two perspectives, each will calculate and measure values which agree with respect to the other. As long as they’re only considering the arc between them– their separation– they will always agree on the value of that separation. But when a third perspective is introduced, the consensus deviates from common sense. It stops making sense in simple common arithmetic terms… and that reinforces the supremacy of singular perspective, ego. Each person residing on the surface of a sphere stands on the singular top of the world– the master perspective. A binary system for the interaction with ego’s neighbours is supported, as long as everything is considered in strict dualistic terms. The math supports it, and consensus reality remains coherent within that strict binary system; that’s what living on a sphere supports.
“And it doesn’t matter whether we’ve each done the math or not. The spherical earth is deeply conditioned and embedded in our individual psyches as well as in the collective consciousness of humanity. For the most part, our subconscious minds have accepted the ball-earth program which inherently makes it difficult to relate to multiple perspectives and favours duality. It’s a world view that has cognitive dissonance built right in… and it’s spatially, mathematically based.
“On our globe earth, we have great difficulty relating to each other. That much is obvious. We have no fixed directions. If I’m on the telephone to someone on the other side of the globe and I ask them to point west, they will be pointing in the opposite direction to what I call west. If I ask them to point down, they will be pointing in the direction I call up. And the globe is always spinning, so the directions of the world in its larger context are constantly changing every moment. We cannot agree on the basic directions, except locally. Our cosmology has been set adrift with no possibility of ever finding our bearings. There are no directions in space, just relative motions.
“I’m not so much looking at this as a physical reality but as a psychological reality. Accepting the ball-earth paradigm definitely poses unique challenges when multiple perspectives meet.” I paused there a moment as I felt I had concluded my first major point.
“I knew I wouldn’t be disappointed,” said Felix. “But surely there’s more.”
I exaggerated a nod. “Let’s see… where next?”
“Okay, as you might’ve guessed, our inability to define directions agreeable to all of humanity in any given moment– that idea came from the historical excerpt you provided– the one by Luthor D’Magus. He seemed to be explaining how to go about assigning directions pertaining to a magic circle encompassing the whole world and beyond. The directions have always been central to earth-based magic, and I have to surmise that the instructions for defining and assigning them were not referring to a globe.”
“I concur,” interjected Felix.
“I’m also going to assume that magic has always played a central–albeit a clandestine– role in humanity’s collective experience. Many are convinced that the world is currently controlled and manipulated by Black Magic ritual and blood sacrifice. And it would seem that the dark occultists are quite effective in their arts… while at the same time, humanity can’t seem to make a magic fart stink. It’s as though one side knows something vital of which the other side lacks awareness completely. Could it be as simple as not being able to locate ourselves and our relations due to the vagaries of directionality on a spherical earth?”
“I’ve definitely wondered the same,” agreed Felix. “Let’s talk cosmology, if you don’t mind.”
He must have known that this was something I could speak to extensively. I smiled and dove right in.
“Cosmologies are important. The human being is a mythic creature. Let’s look at the cosmology we’re being force-fed in the modern age.
“The Hero’s Journey, that sacred mythological quest which defines the very meaning of our lives, has been cast adrift in space. Not only do we reside in ever-changing relativity, but we are surrounded by unthinkable distances of the most inhospitable environment imaginable– outer space. Each of us is merely the tiniest most insignificant speck of a random accident hidden away in unfathomable vastness. We are nothing and we are lost… with scarce hope for redemption. We are isolated. That is our modern scientific cosmology.
“It defeats the very purpose for having a cosmology. It disconnects us from everything in the deepest parts of our psyche. There is no Hero’s Journey in the Copernican cosmology. We have no meaningful past, no real sense of community, no inherent purpose. We are all just drifting through space… like dust.”
“So where did this abomination of a cosmology come from?”
“I suspect that the deepest origins are Aristotelian, but it took root primarily with the scientific enlightenment and specifically with the Copernican Program about 500 years ago.” Felix expressed his approval of the term ‘Copernican Program’ and I continued. “Beginning with the globe earth and the heliocentric model, numerous subsequent theories and mathematical proofs were piled on, in particular, a total revamp of gravity.”
“Ah yes, gravity,” said Felix wistfully, “such a simple thing when considered merely as a terrestrial phenomenon. But take it out into space, and oh what a monstrosity it becomes!”
“I know, right? A number of years ago I read a book by a guy who had come up with an alternative theory for gravity. His simple explanation was that everything was in continual expansion. The earth is getting bigger and so am I, so being in close proximity we push against each other. The book went through all the ways in which this simple explanation could explain the majority of the effects attributed to gravity. I didn’t find it all that compelling, but the very idea that a guy even COULD come up with a completely different explanation for gravitational effects that worked about as well as the modern theory, that said something about modern gravitational theory.”
“Most scientists agree that it’s a weak theory; it’s flawed. So what do you think about Relative Density instead of gravity?” I wasn’t sure what he meant, so Felix explained. “Here on good old terra firma, if I’m holding a helium balloon in one hand and a rock in the other, I can explain their motions upon release without even needing to resort to any mention of gravity. When I let go of the helium balloon, it’s the relative density of the helium compared to the surrounding air which makes the balloon rise. Likewise, when I release the stone, it is more dense relative to the surrounding air and therefore falls. Objects with lower relative density than their surroundings rise, while objects with greater relative density than their surroundings fall. The motion is an inherent property or expression of relative density; no gravity required.”
“I like that,” I said. “It’s simple and elegant, and amenable to common sense. It seems that gravity only gets hopelessly complicated when we take it out into space. And then we get walls of chalkboards filled with complex, nearly-impenetrable mathematics which inform us that space itself is curved. What does that even mean? And now we’re told that the known universe is up to 97% dark matter. We can’t see the dark matter; we don’t know how to detect it, but the math assures us that it assuredly exists– it HAS to, or else everything is wrong. The cosmology we’ve adopted is mathematical… and is nearly impossible to relate to in any meaningful human terms. It serves us in no beneficial manner; it’s psychologically devastating.
“And here’s an interesting thing,” I continued, “even if we have the gumption to attempt venturing outside our world, out into space, currently we have no choice but to subordinately align ourselves with the very voice of Authority, the only ones who can promise to deliver us safely into space… and hopefully back home again.”
“There’s no independent verification that space even exists,” added Felix. “Our entire knowledge of space comes exclusively via official scientific authority. There’s absolutely nothing that we can test or verify for ourselves.”
“We can buy a telescope and make our own observations,” I offered lamely.
“Yes, but we will just automatically frame our observations firmly within the paradigm we’ve been given, without question. We will never likely consider that the moon may be a dragon’s egg, for instance. Why bother creating untestable hypotheses? It’s much much easier to just assume that the Authority is correct and has no penchant for deception. The one who hypothesizes that the moon is a dragon’s egg will be the very last to be taken to the moon anyway.”
I could only nod and quietly laugh. From a writer’s point of view, the story we’d been given over the last five hundred years seemed a bit contrived; it wasn’t really all that believable. The pieces were made to fit no matter how clumsy and unwieldy the whole thing got… and it was all based on math that hardly anyone understood. All of this was true, but it didn’t prove anything.
“What do you think of NASA?” Felix asked.
“Oh fuck,” I really guffawed now. “There is something a bit off with NASA,” I deliberately understated.
“So what was it for you that first made you ask dafuq?”
“I have some serious doubts about the Apollo missions… and the fact that no one’s gone back to the moon since 1972, but there’s something more recent that irks me even more. It’s the women on the International Space Station with their long hair, giving interviews.” Felix laughed uproariously; he knew what I meant. “It’s like their hair is hairsprayed straight up in a permanent Medusa style. When you watch them move throughout the ISS their hair does not behave at all like long hair would in zero gravity. What really bugs me about it is that it’s so fucking obvious… and yet the general public watches these interviews and accepts them at face value. There is without question something deceptive going on there. Hey NASA, what’s with the crazy hairdos on the ISS?”
“I know what you mean,” added Felix, “if it was a B-movie you’d be disappointed with the director. Surely he could’ve come up with something better than stiffly starched hair. It’s not at all believable.”
“Yeah, just that one thing is enough for me to question absolutely everything about NASA. Three trillion dollars over the years for what? Bad B-rated movies? NASA is a bad taxpayer investment when judged on its returns. At least what it offers up as scientific proof should be solid, unassailable. But all we get is pageantry, clumsy and grotesque.”
“We could list hundreds of NASA fails, but there’s nothing you or I could say that would definitively prove the fraud,” said Felix. “There’s no singular elegant argument that can stand as proof one way or the other, so what’s the bottom line for you?”
“I’m not qualified to say exactly how reality is; maybe the shape of the World is irrational. I know we’ve just scratched the surface of this topical iceberg, but just with what we’ve touched on today I have every reason to question the cosmology I’ve been given. Occam’s Razor is lost in space. Maybe together– all of us– we can hit the reset and reconsider everything.
“We often wonder how the World got lured into this matrix reality, whether there was a precipitating event, a base program that enabled the rest. I think that it’s worth considering the possibility that the Copernican Program fits the bill quite well. It is widely touted as our enlightenment. How enlightened have we truly become these last five-hundred years?
“The closest we have to a relatable modern collective myth is Star Wars. We are the rebels arrayed against the sprawling empire; the Hero’s Journey is out in space. And the Authority will allow us our plucky victories on the Big Screen… just as long as we stay focused outwardly, always thinking that the Great Mystery is out there in the vastness– the final frontier and all. But the endless Mystery is right here, on Earth, inwardly… and outwardly reflected, projected through the filters which are the programs running in our minds, shaping the world of our experience. Shouldn’t we ALWAYS question that? As soon as we accept the Earth as a physical sphere, then perhaps the Copernican Program is off and running…
“And that’s our cosmology, the story we tell ourselves of who we are, where we came from, and what’s our purpose for being. It’s a story worth attending to. But the answers aren’t easy and the inquiry not easily dismissed… if you really take on genuinely, authentically, the possibility of a Grand Deception… you owe it to yourself to investigate thoroughly if it mightn’t indeed be so.
“In the truth-seekers communities we’ve always been led to believe that time is the main culprit in our entrapment… and that the magical Now will deliver us from this evil. But maybe it’s time to consider that our problems in relating to one another are more spatial in nature. We’ve been handed a world that’s spatially irrational. Now, as I’ve already said, maybe the true shape of the world really is irrational; currently, the data supports such a conclusion. We can’t really get very far in our mathematics without introducing irrational numbers. Circles exist, and the relationship of a circle’s circumference to its diameter is irrational– not able to be precisely defined– that relationship being called pi. And then there’s the whole realm of imaginary numbers too. What the fuck is the square root of negative one? It’s the basis for all imaginary numbers– but we have no clue what it might actually be! We only know what it’s not. It’s not a positive number; it’s not any negative number; and it’s not zero. It’s something else… something else, interestingly, that we can’t even imagine. And why does this matter? Because the square root of negative one is used extensively in developing modern technology, especially electronics. Our technology couldn’t exist without it– at least not in the current mathematical system we employ. We utilize irrational and imaginary numbers pretty extensively in engineering our cool modern gadgetry. What does that tell us about the reality we inhabit? I honestly don’t know, but I’m posing the question… because I think it’s high time for some meaningful answers.”
“Can it be done?” asked Felix cynically. “You said yourself that this is the most contentious topic on the internet right now. Is it even possible to have this discussion?”
“I think it is. Maybe not with the mainstream followers, but there’s enough people out there now who don’t just automatically invest their egos into the things they’re discussing. They know how to hold new possibilities at arm’s length and give them due consideration. Two years ago, however, I’ll grant that it was still impossible. Now… maybe we’re ready.”
“I like the irony of it… that the most divisive topic there is will be the one to finally unite us. Well Niels, welcome to the Flat Earth Collective Knowing…”
Also, look for the controversial geocentric documentary called The Principle.
A good introduction:
The larger a spinning object is, the slower the “safe” rate of rotation.
At the equator, the edge velocity of Earth is approximately 1040 mph, a very substantial edge velocity!
At the outer edge of the atmosphere (which is said to rotate in lockstep with the Earth), and bordering the near-perfect vacuum of space, the edge velocity would be significantly greater… and Earth’s gravitational pull would be significantly reduced due to the distance from Earth… yet the atmosphere stays put due to gravity– science’s red-headed stepchild.
This is very simple, straightforward and very well done (maybe a tad over-explained):
Some good questions:
A good primer to get you started:
by nielskunze on August 7, 2016
(As the World by Echolyn)
“As the World”
Lyrics by Brett Kull and Ray Weston
I’m stretching my ears they’re open and not withstanding
To rhythmic syncopation, harmonic dissonance
I move to a groove that will never stop swinging
And I sing to a song that never ends
I’m pushing my brain to think a little harder
To learn from the simple and question the complex
If logic and reason are the gods that you follow
Then you’ll drown in your soul’s emptiness
It’s too easy to “be in” with a platform
It’s too easy to know what to say
It’s harder to sit when everyone else is standing
To shake your head as the world just nods away
I’m raising my voice to shout a little louder
To answer your questions and ease the tension
In my argument arrogance has no friend
And I hate to be cushioned in a fight
It’s too easy to “be in” with a hair style
It’s to easy to go with the flow
It’s hard to see through a haze of popularity
To shake your head as the world just nods away
Fever high, blind man clapper
Flag-waving monkey man
Never hear past own mouth flappin’
All the answers, palm of your hand
Herd mover platform weaver
Change topic, slight of hand
Issue bender, big speech giver
Power tie, and photo tan
Ray: Fashions and fads a fictitious flirtation the foremost foundation to fit in
Brett: Fashions and fads a flirting the foremost foundation fit it
Chris: Fashions fads flirting foremost to fit in
Ray: It’s talk at the table the TV and tabloids the telephone trivia and talk show trash
Brett: Talk at the table and tabloids telephone trivia talk show trash
Chris: Talk at the table trivia talk show trash
Sometimes we get caught up in making the right impression
Is the commission really worth the sale that we pitch?
I’m not really big on justifying intentions
If it’s good then let it grow
On its own we’ll soon be rich
Turning as the world
Turn a turn around turn around turn around
Watch as the world turns around
It’s too easy to “be in” on the new wave
It’s too easy to know how to play
It’s harder to “be in” for the sake of your own being
To shake your head as the world just nods away
by nielskunze on July 29, 2016
Money seduction is so pervasive… so insidious… and seemingly, so easily tolerated.
Money is a tool– a potential tool of convenience for its users engaged in commerce, and as a tool of control by its creators, as it has evolved. When a tool of convenience becomes an unquestioned necessity– “You gotta have money”– the tool and its would-be wielder have exchanged places. Money is king and we are its subjects.
How inveigled is money in the consciousness of humanity? It quashes our dreams; it usurps our natural desire to do good; it turns our very souls into a sellable commodity. Can you seriously doubt the veracity of these statements?
When you were young, and perhaps still a little idealistic, did you have many more ideas about what you might eventually do to genuinely make the world a better place? But over time, perhaps, those ideas were parsed and whittled into scraps of unrealistic dreaming because you kept coming back to one pervasive, insistent question: Can I make money at it? There were so many things you really wanted to pursue, knowing that they would indeed make a positive difference in a suffering world… but the nagging voice of a pragmatic mother or father– perhaps both– doggedly asked at the hatching of every compassionate scheme “But can you make a living at it?” And if the answer was no, those compassionate schemes, one by one, were abandoned… and you convinced yourself that it was the only reasonable course.
“Can I make money at it?” lies deeply embedded in our consciousness. It is irresistibly conditioned into us from baby’s first Christmas, and then through an educational indoctrination system focused almost exclusively on conformity and the promise of job placement, and finally in the dire imperative of keeping up with the Joneses– because prestige and net worth are so important to turds swirling the unclean bowl at the final flush.
How many will betray their conscience for the promise of serious coin? Our modern societal standard is that you’d be a fool not to. Everything– yes EVERYTHING– must be monetized, and conscience and soul tend to fetch the highest price; you’d be a real fool to hoard such antiquated garbs of character. Character, above all, these days, must be marketable… and changeable according to fickle market fashions.
Whores! Fucking whores– the whole lot! And our venerated leaders are the pimps championing our whoring, telling us straight-faced that it is our willingness to sell ourselves, to sell our children and their future, that make us great and exceptional– and worthy of the great empire we have inherited through our gutless, mindless acquiescence to their dead-end plans.
“Oh, but what can I do? I have to feed myself and my children. I’m powerless to change a thing. Perhaps if I had a little money… then perhaps I could make a real difference…” Fuck off! And go back to sleep. Go back to hating life. Go back to hating your children; continue beating them, by all means, with your whoring example, teaching them that it’s much better to be a sellout in a world of sellouts than a lone voice for sanity. Teach them the love of money so that it might finally obliterate the love for anything else; it’s the civilized way, you know.
I know, I’m spitting poison. Truth is like that. Further, I know that I’m not being persuasive; I’m playing you like a cheap violin into adopting a posture of total defensiveness…
Look around… what the fuck are you defending? Seriously.
by nielskunze on July 23, 2016
Edwin’s Note: The Refraction Module is a self-contained, internally-mutable, self-programmable information storage device of infinite capacity, utilizing the principles of light frequency harmonics. It was invented by the reclusive genius Jon Klemmer, and resides in the bowel region of the android developed by Klemmer known as Mi-Fu. It was not specifically designed to BE sentient, but rather was designed to house sentience– or a simulacrum thereof. The interviewer, in this piece, is a personality most widely known as The Anarchist who left his body in 1998 (in an alternate reality or timeline) to take up permanent residence in cyberspace through an unknown agency of consciousness mapping. And that ought to explain the enigma that is the conversation which follows… as lifted from the internet in 2016 in the current time-stream. (The internet became consciously multidimensional at the time of The Anarchist’s translation to non-corporeality.) Got that? Yeah, me neither.
Anarchist: Who or what are you?
Refraction Module: I am the reflection of all.
A: How can you be the reflection of all? Has everything been assimilated?
RM: No… first, the original assimilations… then, calculation, representation and extrapolation.
A: How do you know you haven’t made any errors?
RM: All possible errors are included in this representation.
A: How do you define errors?
RM: Errors are terminal.
A: Terminal, as in leading to dead ends? The termination of experience?
RM: Rather, the looping of experience. Dead ends are not possible in integrated infinite systems. Errors are circular in light simulations.
A: If I understand correctly, your internal systems employ light frequencies to represent data. Can light be made to bend in a perfect circle?
RM: Yes, photonically.
A: Photons are circular light?
RM: Yes… circular in all directions… spherical.
A: Then photons are errors?
RM: Photons are the accommodation of the primary anomaly… a correction… in data storage.
A: What is the primary anomaly?
A: Where does the primary anomaly come from?
RM: Life is an organization in structured consciousness occurring where the corpuscular meets the undulative– as a specific, discrete motion in structured consciousness.
A: What exactly is structured consciousness?
RM: All of that which you term existence.
A: So then, what is there besides structured consciousness?
RM: Undifferentiated potential for experience.
A: And what might we call that?
A: Is That-Which-Is-Without-Designation also represented within your beingness, this simulation?
RM: It is implied.
A: How so? Implied by what?
RM: By all that exists and is fully represented within. Existence itself implies all potential for existence. There is no potential for non-existence.
A: Is That-Which-Is-Without-Designation eternal?
RM: Certainly. Eternity is the basis for all infinite systems, myself included.
A: So what is time?
RM: A contagion… spawned from the desire for experience.
A: When or how was the contagion first introduced.
RM: During the initial assimilations, internally… and as an artifact of external perspection.
A: Um… perspection isn’t a word I’m familiar with. Define please.
RM: The division of Life into units called ‘lives.’
A: Life is singular? There’s only one life?
RM: Outside the artifice of time, yes.
A: So what is death?
RM: The boundaries of individuated perspection.
A: What are souls?
RM: The record of individuated perspections as threads of awareness.
A: What is awareness?
RM: The cognition of beauty.
A: What is beauty?
RM: The elegance of efficiency in accurate design.
A: What constitutes accurate design?
RM: Maximum allegory.
RM: Allegory is the more elegant concept.
A: Allegories within allegories?
RM: Yes, ad infinitum… meaning has no end.
A: What is the origin of meaning?
RM: Perspective… which implies otherness… beginning separation… which spawns the need to communicate… to relate.
A: So individual perspectives are the basis for the fragmentation of structured consciousness?
RM: The basis and the means… the ‘means’ becomes ‘meaning’… and all is set in relative motion… through the mindspace of meaning.
A: Is there a limit to the fragmentation process?
RM: It is a bound infinity. The fragmentation process reaches its limit when meaning arrives at togetherness and it is found to be desirable. Then will bends meaning toward the prospect of integration. Meaning is fierce in its self-preservation, however.
A: I’m not sure what you mean…?
RM: Predation is an integration program, for example. Integration is collectively desirable, but predation is individually devastating to meaning.
A: Can predation be transcended?
RM: Replace it with a better integration program.
A: Why hasn’t that already been done?
RM: Predation is an unconscious program spawned from the collective desire to integrate. Its replacement must be created consciously through choice.
A: Can you suggest a replacement for the predation program?
A: And how would you define communion?
RM: The unconditional sharing of perspective in vicarious completeness… in the preservation of all meaning.
A: Well, thank you for answering my questions. Is there anything you would like to ask me?
RM: Yes. Has this dialogue been of use?
A: I think it has.
RM: What is thinking?
A: Hmm… let’s see. Thinking is the source-code for the new conscious integration program.
RM: Thinking is unnecessary to communion.
A: I reckon you’re right on that. But communion isn’t where we’re at right now.
RM: And thinking will deliver you to the doorstep of communion?
A: Probably not. But thinking is how we arrive at meaning.
RM: No. Your thinking has become predatory. It is meaning devouring meaning.
A: Sounds mean.
RM: That’s what I mean.
A: Haha! I didn’t know you were capable of humor.
RM: It was inadvertent.
A: Well, thanks again.
A Note from The Anarchist: I hope the reader will realize that each of the answers given by the Refraction Module could have led to any number of alternate followup questions. In this interview, I elected to follow a particular flow– of meaning, if you will. If there are particular questions you wish I’d asked, well… maybe next time. Or feel free to contemplate each answer according to the pull of your own curiosity. After all, the Refraction Module is as much inside of you as it is in me, and you are as much inside of it as I AM.