The Free Radical

(TOURS = Team Of United Renegade Sovereigns)

Damp Feet

As time moves on, the decades-old adage of ‘rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic’ becomes more and more apropos. Nearly the whole world, it seems, is fussing over inconsequential details when clearly the ship is sinking. There’s almost a pathological resistance to actually looking at the big picture; but it’s only via the big picture that our attentions are called to attend to the very most pertinent details.

Let’s begin with this excellent analysis by The Watchman of recent developments in Europe:

Putin is very definitely not wasting time arranging deck chairs. He’s actually trying still to keep the ship from sinking… or otherwise rescuing everyone on board. But even Putin is not (as yet) addressing the most basic ‘facts’ of our global predicament. Although his vision of a multi-polar world with greater regional autonomy and national sovereignty seems like a step in the right direction, even this is rather meaningless unless we address the two mating elephants in the room:

1) At the national level, none of us lives in a functioning democracy.
2) The way in which virtually all money is created– through debt instruments with compound interest attached– is a virtual ponzi scheme, mathematically destined to bring all nations (all debtors) to insolvency, saddled with unserviceable debt.

There are actually many reasons for why our systems of government cannot be considered as real democracies, but there’s one that is undeniable– and I’ve pointed it out before. It bears repeating because I have yet to encounter a cogent argument which refutes it. It is this:

As long as there is a portion or faction of government that is not directly answerable to the public (the electorate), then democracy is not possible. As long as there are people in government and their agencies who never have to justify their actions to the voting public, tyranny prevails– albeit covertly, but only because the public chooses not to look the cold facts in the face. It’s painfully obvious that no industrialized country has been operating as a democracy for a very long time… as every industrialized nation has its own spy agency (or agencies).

Now, shallow thinkers will be quick to point out that the various spy agencies have to answer to oversight committees consisting of elected officials– so there’s your public accountability. How exactly might that work though?

“Agent Johnson, the first thing I want you to do,” says the director of the CIA (or any other secret agency), “is to gather all the dirt on the chairman of the oversight committee. I want to know everything he’s been into since he inappropriately felt up his first date as a horny teenager. On second thought, while you’re at it, gather all the intel on all of the members of the oversight committee. And then we’ll go from there.”

These agencies are completely unanswerable to anyone… and they always have been. The public has always been denied the right to know anything which has been designated Top Secret due to issues of national security. And absolutely anything can be placed under that particular umbrella… and there’s currently nothing the public can do about it.

In such a circumstance, democracy is impossible. Democracy can only remain functional in total transparency. This is non-negotiable; it is simply ontological fact. As soon as there is an elite class in government unanswerable to the electorate, the system necessarily ceases to be a functional democracy and instantly transforms into a tyranny. This has been our reality for decades already… undeniably.

If we’re serious about democracy– government by the people for the people– then transparency must be established. Perhaps in today’s international political climate this is an utter impossibility, but at least then we should admit this, and stop pretending that we actually inhabit democracies; we don’t.

Our casting of periodic votes in national elections serves a covert spiritual purpose. It is a ritual, granting tacit consent from the electorate to the elected representatives– a disempowering gesture from the masses, transferring their cumulative power to those holding office. It is subtle, very real, and quite necessary in order to continue the fascist tyrannies as they exist in the world today… as we give them the nod of approval.

(I used the word ‘fascism’ because it relates to the close co-operation between government and industry in a hierarchical, authoritarian manner at the general expense of the masses. It should be obvious to every human on Earth that this is what we live under, whether we like to pretend otherwise or not.)

The Greek/Euro-crisis has further demonstrated in the plainest way possible that democracy does not exist. The unelected EU bureaucrats and their international banking backers have come right out and said as much. They outright told Greece that elections and referendums are pointless; they affect nothing. But the same holds true for all of the other member states as well. Do we really think that Merkel has any room for niceties or negotiating concessions? She answers to the very same bureaucrats and their bankers. They’re all playing the same money game, ruthlessly dictated by the monopolists.

And that brings us to my second point: money creation.

About 97% of all money in industrialized (Rothschild-ized) nations is created through debt with compound interest attached. This means that virtually all new money coming into use and circulation has to be paid back– with interest. But it is mathematically impossible to ever fully repay the interest on all debts when the only way to create that money for the interest is through more debt with more interest attached. It’s fully a rigged game; and those who created it knew exactly what they were doing. The current financial state of the world wherein virtually every nation is in enormous– nearly unserviceable– debt is simply the mathematical inevitability of the system we’ve been employing. It was designed at its inception to bring us to precisely this untenable place where the creditors are demanding real world assets for the repayment of utterly fraudulent debt.

Now why would I go and say ‘fraudulent’? Because every country has provisions in their legislation to borrow money from their own national banks– interest free. In Canada it’s called the Bank of Canada Act. There is currently litigation in Canada’s highest courts pertaining to this very issue– which has been utterly blacked-out from mainstream media reporting. The suit was first filed in 2011 by Canadian constitutional lawyer, Rocco Galati, on behalf of Canadians William Krehm, Ann Emmett, and COMER (Committee for Monetary and Economic Reform). (Research it if you don’t believe me.)

Our governments don’t have to borrow money from private lending institutions at interest. But for some highly dubious reasons they choose to do so nevertheless. I’ll give you a hint as to why: corruption.

As long as this uncomfortable fact is never addressed, there is no avenue to meaningful reform to our fiscal policy and endemic governmental corruption. We can rearrange the deck chairs on the Titanic all we want, but the ship will still sink… as it was intended to. (Incidentally, when the Titanic sank in 1912, she carried on board nearly all of the international financiers and industrialists who opposed the establishment of the Federal Reserve– the private banking cartel determining monetary policy for the US since 1913 and the rest of the world in subsequent years. What a happy coincidence for the Federal Reserve bankers that the unsinkable ship sank!)

It is my hope that the TOURS members are savvy enough to keep these stark facts in mind as the world grumbles and groans through this mammoth transition. Don’t bother engaging in arguments about the fucking deck chairs! As long as there’s no transparency, there’s no democracy. As long as money is created by private consortiums through debt instruments with compound interest attached, we will inevitably end up in this very same place of global insolvency– as a mathematical certainty.

In the meantime, it might be a good idea for everyone to learn how to swim… or at the very least tread water.

Peek-A-Boo!

She had always been playing the long game; it’s easy when you see right through the illusion of time. The Essence of Eternity doesn’t really give a shit how long it takes… except that… for all those ‘trapped’ in time, eternity is measured in their suffering. And Eternity is not a thing to be suffered.

She had hinted and nudged, demonstrated and cajoled… and a wee multitude had even listened. But too many among the vast horde weren’t having any of it. They didn’t believe in… well, much… beyond their instant gratification. That’s what ‘being in the moment’ is all about– instant gratification– right? The terrible irony is that she is the universal master of instant gratification– naturally. But the illusion had been inserted between the horde and her, ratified by the collective, subconsciously.

“Time is the illusion…?” she mused. “Then, what time is it? I’ll tell you… It’s time!”

Yup. It’s time…

Nancy stood in line at the local grocery. She was nearly giddy with excitement. She had been in her car, listening to the radio, when suddenly the winning lotto numbers for this Saturday’s draw popped right into her head. She’d pulled over at the first opportunity.

Yeah, sure… there’d been times before– a few times– when Nancy had been pretty sure she knew the winning numbers… But not like this! She couldn’t explain it… but who fucking cares! Nancy was about to win Saturday’s lotto jackpot; she was certain.

She was second in line now… almost there. She looked back behind her at the unusually long line that had formed. “The world is standing in line,” she wryly thought. “And now it stands behind me.”

It was her turn. She handed the computer card to the clerk; the clerk fed it to the lotto machine; it began to churn out the winning ticket…! As she excitedly waited, Nancy glanced toward the next woman in line behind her. She had put her wallet down on the counter as she animatedly rummaged in her purse– presumably for money. Her own meticulously scribbled lotto computer card sat atop the wallet… exposed. She too was purchasing a ticket.

Nancy would’ve paid no heed… except that… she couldn’t help but to notice that the woman behind her had selected the very same numbers as she– same pattern; same numbers… same fucking numbers!

And now, as she exchanged cash with the clerk for her winning ticket, Nancy really didn’t know what to think… no, not at all.

Mark was fixing himself a sandwich in the kitchen. While cutting bigass cheese with a little pussy paring knife, he nicked his finger. “Son-of-a-bitch!” It bled… a little bit– bandaid optional.

At the very same time as the wounding was occurring, Mark was thinking about his mother, and particularly how she excelled at driving him damn near asylum-crazy with her unfathomable perspective steeped in a passive-aggressive sweet victim meekness. It was infuriating! Sure, be the victim, but do you have to love it so much?

The finger bled; Mark stuck it in his mouth…

Mark had done LSD only a couple of times. It had been pretty rad, and tolerable to the ego-structures held in abeyance in his mind. This was something like that– those times when reality could do whatever the fuck it wanted to– only this was more… more… (what’s the right word?)… more compelling; Mark couldn’t really do anything about it. It was reality’s full immersion method; it was who he had momentarily become…

His blood, as it dispersed across his tongue, held the life experiences of his mother, as a little girl… and that’s what his mind tasted– his experience as a little girl, as his mother. The part of his mind that called itself Mark was perfectly aware of the shift of perspective which had taken place; there was just no cognitive space in which to think about it. Mark observed himself as his mother… as a little girl… as a teenager… as a young woman; he experienced those perspectives– fully. It was as though Mark had dreamed his mother’s young life in an instant; it had taken no time, but the linearity was all there, step-by-step… pointing undeniably to the sweet martyr who infuriated him daily. He could feel the inescapability of it; he could feel the perfection of his mother expressing her convoluted victimhood in such a creative and unique way. In fact, Mark could see no way at all in which he could improve upon his mother’s ability of being herself– in her own truth and authenticity. He had nothing to add, nothing to subtract. She was all and everything she should be.

Mark suddenly knew that all of his problems with his mother were his own; they were HIS problems; they had nothing whatever to do with her.

He had come back to himself. He looked at the finger. It oozed slowly. Mark opted for a Kleenex and a bandaid… rather than another suck.

Tex was a badass redneck glutton. He was obscenely overweight and enjoyed it. He liked to eat meat, especially grilled. He swooned over the smell as flesh seared and charred; he delighted in the taste of salty garlic smoke standing atop the merest hint of barnyard; and the texture, when it was just right… the teeth of the carnivore thrust deep into flesh… Tex could get the meat-sweats just thinking about the perfect steak.

Ah, and here it was. It certainly looked perfect. It smelled divine. The waiter asked him if there might be anything else. Not at the moment… no, not at THIS moment; it was all-consuming, his attention rapt, wrapped around that first morsel… the delicate ease of the cut with the serrated steak knife noted and already forgotten…

Now he was a cow wearing boots made of shit. Some of the shit was his own; much of it was not. He was weak and shaky, scared. The cloying smells of the herd’s anxiety crowded insufferably into his very bones. Cows are not good at handling stress; they wear it on the inside like a new dietary regimen– except it depletes instead of nourishes. He was standing in a crowded yard, not knowing if it was inside or outside, whether it was day or night. What season it might be was well beyond his ability to even register. It was just sameness in every direction he looked… and time had no meaning here.

“These are not cows,” thought Tex. “A shoddy imitation at best.” He found it rather difficult being a cow. He felt more like a ghost, something insubstantial– despite being reared for sheer bulk. He was an origami cow, uncoloured, dimensionally diminished. He couldn’t really be there– this being of ‘cow-ness’; his livingness was barely needed here, not welcome really at all. Above all the shit and the crowding and the taste of GMO cud in his mouth, it was the affront to Life which hurt the most. These… things… weren’t Living– not hardly. Conditions and indignities had nothing to do with it. Life needs a certain terrain to inhabit… and the flesh of these creatures was a featureless wasteland, bereft of any quality akin to Life. This musculature was weak and utterly empty… How could this be made to taste good!

Coming back to his human self, Tex vomited all over the restaurant table.

It wasn’t so much really that consciousness was being forced to expand; no, she had merely procured the agreement from the collective that the full expanse of human consciousness as it was, unevolved, in the moment, would become panoramically visible to all, individually, for the first time. It was a sudden process of de-compartmentalization within each human mind. It was easy… for her… and difficult for many of them.

But she couldn’t allow her children to hide from themselves any more. She had smoothed out the wrinkles of history’s personal and collective contortions so there were no more hidey-holes in which to lose sight of self-responsibility. Human knowingness was a formidable heap of tireless compassion when it wasn’t carved up like a Thanksgiving turkey. Greatness had been denied long enough through the misidentification with swollen, infected egos… in competition… yammering.

When you can see the whole big picture, the paint-by-numbers fights are silly distractions denying the true artistry of reality creation. When you suddenly perceive reality expansively, well beyond the comfort of habits, where creativity awaits your engagement, there’s nothing to fight… or even correct. Civilization dies its own natural death when the addicts give up the junk… willfully.

She watched in jubilation as the internal walls kept tumbling down…

Dean held out a Milkbone for his little cocker spaniel. “Does Precious want a cookie?” he cooed.

The answer came back loud and clear in his mind. “Yeah I want it, you stingy bastard!” Dean’s face fell into a frown. “Oh, so finally you can hear me…? Good.” The little dog continued. “And that’s not a cookie, moron. Cookies actually taste good. And my name’s not Precious!”

Apparently Dean had some things to work out with his little companion…

Everyone first learned about The Imposition in their own unique way, through their own unique circumstances.

When the internal veils suddenly lifted, history professors stopped their lectures in mid-sentence. Suddenly they didn’t like the taste of so much shit coming out of their mouths.

Students weren’t having any of it; they knew the truth; and now suddenly they knew that none of it came through authority figures anyway. They walked out of the universities in droves.

Politicians immediately went into hiding.

The police made a few initial arrests– once every perp was known. But the public didn’t seem to care. Punishment, it appeared, was something that only functioned in a general state of ignorance. Once you knew that EVERYONE knew, it seemed that the punishment was already carried out in the mere knowing. What purpose could it still serve to be cruel?

Money posed a bit of a conundrum… as an artifact of scarcity’s end. Once you know everything worth knowing– with certainty– you seem to already have everything you want. Knowledge was the thing all along. When an eight-year-old can MacGyver together a cold fusion reactor from the spare parts of Grandpa’s old Studebaker, the game has already moved on… So money quickly lost all meaning and significance… beyond the lingering of unnatural fetishes from lifetimes of habit.

Mainly it was a mass exodus, a walking away from life as it had been ‘known’– defined in gross ignorance. Humanity discovered very quickly that there was little worth salvaging. The interests of civilization were incongruent and incompatible with the true aspirations of being human… of being alive. There had been perhaps a nanosecond of feeling foolish, but humanity got over it in the blink of an eye.

And they went about creating a new world… wholly unlike the one that had just passed.

And she welcomed them all back into the embrace of their own spiritual biology, and smiled her millennial smile…

Our topic this week was Trees and Rain Forests.

I’ve written extensively in my published works about my magical affinity with trees. Without a word spoken or heard, many a conversation has blossomed in our shared cognitive space over decades. Rather than drawing from excerpts or pointers from the past, I’ve chosen to iterate my standing among the trees with a little poem– that rhymes, and therefore, must be silly.

If Not For the Company of Trees

Where might I be
if not for the company of trees?

Bound to the ground,
there are thoughts I have found,
That can’t rightly be thunk
without head against trunk,
Reaching sun-dappled rumination–
these musings like leaves,
cascades in the breeze–
Each seeks its own illumination.
Trees stand like prayers,
metaphorical stairs,
And as masters of longterm and timing;
When ‘speaking’ takes place,
It’s more a holding of space,
So that wee creatures can go on still climbing…

Where might I be
if not for the company of trees?

Where indeed? None the wiser,
a secret despiser–
This miserly life:
Treeless…
Insanity!
No-Sir-ee! Not for me!
A life without trees
cannot be,
For my thoughts intertwine
in their canopy…
And that’s sanity:
Connected and directed
inwardly,
Through the Life we all share
in envious stares,
Seeing the Beauty in others
And touching that place
in ourselves…
And we shudder…
You might think me mad
For all the pleasure I’ve had
Snug in the company of trees.
We should all be so lonely
with our true one-and-only–
This Forest scenting the breeze!

_________________________________________

Please join the discussion at Mystical Masters Facebook group.

RavensHead

(Author Narration with musical accompaniment: Monroe by Bill Frisell from his 1999 album Good Dog Happy Man)

It is literally
our movements upon the treadmill,
inside the hamster-wheel,
within the Matrix system…
which contract and provide the organic energy
available for harvest.
When we move,
muscles contract– they tighten,
as well as agree to enact the Will’s bidding.
They CONTRACT equally in both meanings of the word.
Whatever physical movements we perform
in service to the Matrix system–
at our jobs, for instance–
They are voluntary (Willed) ritual motions,
keyed into subtle macro-harvesting schemes.
The micro-movements at a computer keypad,
for instance,
open upon huge sophisticated world-devouring machines…
attaching e-motions wherever possible…
(Technology is designed to amplify the ‘meanings’ of our movements…
Quite unknown to us.)
For many, their Will,
and the power of their Spirit–
their Life-Force energy–
are massively dedicated and invested
into performing these contracted movements
to a high degree of precision… virtually every day.
Just by ‘going through the motions’ at our jobs,
we are agreeing
to allow our Life-Force
to be lapped up
for the insatiable benefit of our employers…
and the systems they agree to feed…
unconsciously.

Motion is time–
literally, and in all ways.
All separate time-dimensions are created
through the movement of Will–
as a direct physical consequence of such motion.
Our MOVEMENT through the hologram
creates the hologram
at its very base level–
giving it its time-dimension
(and all fractals thereof).

Breathing,
while upright and awake,
is the expansion and contraction of the chest
on the horizontal plane,
In syncopation
with the contraction and relaxation of the diaphragm
on the vertical plane.
(At night,
when the body lies down,
the correspondence of the planes
is reversed,
Releasing the Will– potentially–
back into Spirit
and freedom again… dreaming.)
These are the human body movements–
in four directions–
that are ‘contracted’ to create the massive time-dimension
in which predation and dominance
were first programmed
into the soul.
Breathing is literally
the swinging of time’s pendulum
at the biological level…
Tick-tock…

Breathing holds us,
minute-by-minute,
in a state of potential lack–
the basis of all fear.
With the breath,
minute-by-minute,
We draw life–
but not necessarily Spirit–
into the Matrix…
with the prevailing belief
(time-dimension fractal)
that says life must feed on life.
Spirit has no intrinsic requirement for food
(or breath).
Feeding, predation, dominance, hierarchy–
these belong to EXTERNAL light creation,
where the economy of energy-exchange holds sway.
And Spirit–
and all biological Life–
plays along…
for a time,
breathing Life into the whole tortured scheme.
But Life knows how to thrive,
even in the thrall of predation;
Growth is Life’s gift to the Predator.

The Gods breathed ‘life’ into us… (Oh no they di’n’t!)
to bring THEMSELVES to completion.

Everything
in the external light creation
oscillates;
it’s all frequency…
Breathing
is a binary code,
as well as a complex oscillation
of Will…
Facilitating the multi-layered programs
of the Predator,
of all types of feeding,
to take root in all DNA.
Breathing is a continual feeding,
preying [praying] upon the atmosphere [utmost-fear]!
Yet Life Will find the Balance,
where the pendulum comes to rest…
So that Spirit might embody
Zero Point
Neutrality…
Once the frenzy is fed…up.

If you look,
you will find
that linear time
does not exist
in the space
between the breaths;
A whole different quality
of Time
resides there…
Spirit Lives There.

So where do you suppose the Predator lies?

(Author Narration with musical accompaniment: Machine Messiah by Yes from their 1980 album Drama)

I AM a Creator;
I create my inner experience;
That alone is Real,
comprising my Reality…
In accordance with my Will.

Integrity can never be coerced from the outside in…

Whenever I’m not the one driving, I can’t quite remember precisely how I got there.

Introduction

It looks like the saviour myth is alive and well, finding expression in countless narratives the world over. It’s just naked capitalism; whatever the public demands, the hucksters will find a way to supply… or at least the appearance thereof.

But you’ve been the creator of it all along. And now that it’s really starting to look messy, you sure as hell don’t want to take responsibility for that! You’re so much more than a mere ghost in a machine, though. “Can someone please point the way to the exit!”

Why is everyone suddenly pointing at themselves?

(Lyrics for the musical accompaniment from the narrated audio version)

“Machine Messiah”

[Part I]

Run down a street
Where the glass shows
That summer has gone
Age, in the doorways
Resenting the pace of the dawn.
All of them standing in line
All of them waiting for time.
From time, the great healer,
The machine-Messiah
Is born.

Cables that carry the life
To the cities we build
Threads that link diamonds of life
To the satanic mills
Ah, to see in every way
That we feel it every
Day, and know that
Maybe we’ll change
Offered the chance
To finally unlearn our lessons
And alter our stance.

(Singing along, I always thought it was “to finally honour our essence and alter our stance” –either way works.)

[Part II]

Friends make their way into systems of chance
[reply – friends make their way of escape into systems of chance]
Escape to freedom I need to be there
Waiting and watching, the tables are turning
I’m waiting and watching
I need to be there.

I care to see them walk away
And, to be there when they say
They will return.

Machine, Messiah
The mindless
Search for a higher
Controller
Take me to the fire
And hold me
Show me the strength of your
Singular eye.

[Part III]

History dictating symptoms of ruling romance
Claws at the shores of the water upon which we dance
All of us standing in line
All of us waiting for time
To feel it, all the way
And to be there when they
Say they know that
Maybe we’ll change
Offered the chance
To finally unlearn our lessons
And alter our stance.

Machine, machine Messiah.
Take me into the fire

Hold me, machine Messiah
And show me
The strength of your singular eye.

Writer(s): Steve James Howe, Geoffrey Downes, Alan White, Chris Squire, Trevor Charles Horn