You are not it; it actually is you. —Ch’an Master Tung-shan
By Nines
Now that I meatspace love you, everything’s changed. You might not know this, but in satori the world looks different. You love everything, everything, and trees lean more elegantly, burger joints seem like mini outposts of the Taj Mahal, you keep having to wonder if those are earthquakes or youquakes. They are the latter, but they are so intense you immediately suspect the former.
I have returned from the belly of the beast, made my way back via pitstops with my dearest old friends I never get to see anymore, and they are all convinced I’m now irretrievably ‘round the bend. Almost unpresentably senile. I mean, after a certain age, people do stop trying to fix you, and I’m there.
I don’t remember a thing anyone said at the conference. It’s worse than all the books and movies I gobble up and promptly turn into the no language land that is my inner cosmos.
No, wait. I remember my temporary boyfriend asking me to temporarily be his girlfriend. That will have been my communion with a space alien, and, of course, no one can draw a blank on that sort of thing.
So, I have to reiterate and may to my dying day, for you to forget the fizzing over space aliens. They’re us. Maybe more us than we are. Even if they’re green with eyeballs at the end of multiple antennae. It’s all us. He was so mellow it may even be his fault, whatever planet from which he hails, I’m here now, stuck having to report to you on something about which I am so nearly completely amnesiac.
So I tuned-in to Bonnie and Catherine discussing it for the Solarians, for my fellows, and was thrilled to note they were nearly as blanked out on the specifics as I am, admitting they had to listen again. I have to listen again a bunch of times.
Okay, okay, you hardheaded economics majors are bucking already at the frippery, the pointlessness of going to a conference where everyone at the conference goes away speechless with such a love-sodden forgetting, but you are wrong. As usual.
Most of the presentations were so dense with information your parched truth lover, no question, went all the way off down the garden path and dove into the koi pond, writhing and splashing and singing and hopping and falling down in gales of ecstasy so intense your brain circuits will still be in the process of full time redelusionalization on the day you die. Okay?
Or was it all a mere exaltation of maniacs with cripplingly high IQs? This is a distinct possibility. I am not so sodden from the koi pond and my faster-than-instant love for certain of the conference people that I will not freely admit we may have just gotten in off the beginningless and endless Gobi of being us by means of a particularly elegant sculpting of thin air.
That’s the rub for humans. Any of us. Our physical senses keep duping us for as long as we are stupid enough to keep believing them. Like believing our government. Way too exactly like our belief in our consarn psychopathic government.
Catherine Austin Fitts is so kind to them, has always been too good for them and will immortally stand for the brute fact that almost everyone in the execution of our government means well. Believe me, I’d love to cut her right down to a nub on that one if I could, but I cannot. She’s right.
Think of everyone you’ve known who is a member of the set of all end times hastening, say, lawyers… or salesmen… or postmasters… or rich people… or dumbers-down of children… or taser-wielder cops… capitalists… anyone, anyone, anyone going about blamelessly feeding themselves and their families with their innocent associations with others as ruthlessly engaged in the scavenging of survival paper as you are deep inside there with that immortally-demanding belly of yours.
None of them are villains! None. Well… okay… maybe one or two, but for purposes of discussion, that one or two only got left out here in the general population because they were overlooked by their fellow psychopaths or have some redeeming feature that obviated entry into the ranks of killers. It was a clerical error or an impurity of villainy.
The breakaway civilization, already flying around over us in saucers and triangular craft, will stay peopled exclusively by psychopaths, not, already not, anyone you could viably accuse of being one of us, even if you do. No, I’m not going for an Us and Them scenario here; simply highlighting the sequela of being constitutionally incapable of actually feeling a certain type of emotion. Feigning it is the only way they can stay autonomous on this planet, duping you into helping blow it up.
So we find ourselves near prostrate in this macro version of our resistance to questioning our own sensory inputs that we humans like to call, in our native flare for convenience, “the world”. It might be that we conference goers have just found the elegant-enough delusion to keep us busy. We should try not to lose sight of that.
At the very end of this rope clings the real possibility it’s all a joke, those trillions came in as thin air, only a type of jargon for our travails, and go out the same way… back into the outright nothing from which they sprang. This could end up being the punchline of the joke that keeps whizzing past our left ears, the ultimate fact of the matter at hand that eludes even the most brilliant among us. Maybe. Maybe not.
But we should also not lose sight of what blanked out our memories at this conference. It was precisely that which the psychopaths can only feign, precisely the thing with which the psychopaths manipulate humans. Our Achilles Heel.
Love.
It is also our greatest strength. It is also the indispensable thing. It is the most important thing to insure stays confused on this planet if you are determined to use humans like drayage and pit bulls and sex toys and slaves.
So even if we are actually engaging in high art here, instead of productive deduction — which objective observers will have great difficulty teasing out from the information blaring out of the speakers at this conference, I assure you — the love part is the crucial ingredient.
Whosoever harks that from the befuddled minions, harks our salvation. Don’t lose sight of that, I beg you. I don’t care what religion you find fills your heart. I don’t care what color your skin. I don’t care what inarticulateness incarnate you speak. Heck, I don’t even care what planet you are from.
Don’t lose sight of that.
That is their Achilles Heel and it will wrest justice and beneficence from the jaws of defeat.
But only if those of us who recognize it do our uppermost to get it to you, to spread it, and this fact is what has put us in such a condition as to be deemed dotty by the dear old friends who did not or could not engage in this with us. I know Farrell lost his Nefarium rhythm over it.
At least that… but since it was only fellow conference goers with whom he had truck between the bowels of hell and home, he probably got off lightly, didn’t have to come up with ways to seem passably “normal” so immediately on the heels of such an experience.
I think Rappoport may have actually come out unscathed. I am not sure why I think this, but I do. He just seemed very, very in charge of what he was going to do to us and so comfortable in it that he would not be mowed down by it. That was how it felt to me. And I noticed that the arrival of his wife only made the impression that much stronger.
You may recall me griping about my losing and finding and losing Joely on the Sunday of the conference. He has been coming to my blog for years, and he lives right across the freeway from the conference venue, so it was unthinkable that we should not use this opportunity to at least have coffee together.
Well, he decided he couldn’t remain aloof enough from my enthusiasm and actually sprang for the Sunday ticket. Turns out the reason we had that much trouble keeping track of each other is exactly what I’m trying to impress on you here.
The love, the relief of the love, fuzzed out our regular walking around concept-manipulating consensus so badly that anything so mundane as how-do-you-do was put in the shade. He only went the one day and didn’t have all that access to the marvelous people putting it on, and turns out he’s as giddy and thrilled and unfathomable to his friends and relatives and neighbors as the rest of us.
It’ll wear off. Hear that psychos? Relax. It’ll wear off… if we don’t keep doing it and doing it and doing it. If we don’t keep making spaces for this energy, keep spreading it, we are doomed to quanta more millennia of this… unless those of us already defeated get their death wishes that is.
Which brings me to Jeroen van Straaten, the organizer, the guy who put this on, the bodhisattva of this love-in, and his darling wife, Maddy Villar, who made sure everybody, all how many hundreds of us, got from A to B and back, well greeted, well seated, well fed and well watered. These are the people who have been bringing us the Global Breakaway Energy Movement conferences, that have been at least energizing mobs of us if not yet the infrastructure in which we reside.
I love that, but… honestly… I’m not that interested in the nuances of it because it’s so tortuous and the various protagonists in that saga are so apt to be killed or quacks or too radio crystals, too nerdy basement projects for me. In other words, never definite enough to squander my precious bits of vitality on… too mechanically inclined for me… too left brain smart and jargon knotted for these trifocals to parse in any wise comfortably. So I leave that to them and this to me.
But since that all has started I keep hearing from the ends of the intertubes that the conference organizers are really nice people. Years. I’ve been hearing that on podcasts and videos for years, and, in fact, I’ve heard Catherine say they are the kind of people who deserve our support, and so we support them.
Yes, yes, this is how we treat people nice enough to put this stuff together for us. It’s polite, pro forma to say so, the done thing, and I have definitely noted that numerous people have been socially adept enough to mention this in public… repeatedly. Okay? Okay already. They’re nice people. I get it.
OMFG, all those people with social graces and kind words to say? Pfeh. Cruelly understating it over and over again! I’m shocked all these personalities have been so clumsily graceless as to talk of anything else whatsoever, paying such paltry lip service to something quite more crucial than their thin praises.
Jeroen, whose name I finally perfected pronouncing the morning after leaving the conference, and Maddy are young. They’re sparkling. They’re full of vividly powerful chi. They are serious.
ACTUALLY perfecting these love-ins on a level psychopaths wish you’d only read about in a book or seen on Mission Impossible. No. Really. It is moonscape out here. Nobody works like that. Everybody is vastly more engaged in the business of being the person who has their job title than ever delivering on the actual function that title represents.
Didn’t Maddy and Jeroen get the memo?
This has been so for decades now. Our decaying infrastructure? Nobody knows how to fix it. They’re busy knowing how to seem like someone who can fix it. That takes up all their time, even after hours. This is the way of psychopathy and all humans who mistake it for authority. Feign function.
It isn’t just that crucial emotion they must feign. You don’t think of that, do you? Well, Jeroen and Maddy obviously don’t either, and this could be the herald of the salvation I keep insisting is mandatory while I yet draw breath. You can’t be within a couple hundred yards of those two and not love them to bits. I promise.
This is how I know that just as we may start feeling it wear off, it will be renewed with another powwow, another outpouring of scintillating researches and ideas and great flying chunks of authenticity splatting us with decency tsunamis, with the memory of the limitless perfection we have always been — and nearly cannot breathe anymore from missing for almost as long as we can remember. It’s going to grow.
We will find the answers to the nearly certain, but not quite completely certain, bits that leave us open to the fairytale mongers’ pretensions to intellectual rigor and they will fall silent under this wave… without ever being touched… without ever even having to be told off… just the unbearable beauty of the truth will spread out from these works like the global fires in the computer generated comet impacts they terrify us with so deucedly regularly these days.
They’re toast.
We will bring honor back upon the courage heroes defeated, who seemed to have been defeated, in the past with this dunderheaded strength of the true mind, the true love that is our only reason to endure, to persist, to keep finding our spirits and pressing on, this tsunami that can render Joseph P. Farrell speechless and keep a lot of world class professional bodhisattvas outright stoned for over a week and who knows how much longer?
I guess we’re going to see.
And this leaves me with my deepest obligation, my really only unstoppable reason for trying to get through to you. The ultimate reason I do not spend all my time soaking in a clawfoot tub, eating bonbons, sipping cognac, smoking rare tobaccos.
The very strictest translation of the word “bodhisattva” is:
Mind Hero
It is the only one that will do. They, the ancients, the masters, the great enlightening beings who called this world Endurance, the ones shamed by bottomless supplies of charlatans for so many centuries hardly anyone can hear them anymore, the original mind heroes, were not referring to the mind that gets blanked out by this much juice, the one that can’t recite for you what took place at this conference, in regular sensory inputs zone, the one admitting to needing another listen or two… or ten. No. They were talking about the one mind, the true mind, the real sentience. This.
The actuality.
The one constantly buried in oceans of twaddle and lies and lowness of any imaginable description by the relentless efforts of psychopaths. The one smacked out of us from childhood, bored out of us in school, droned out of us at work. The one they cannot fathom if they live even thousands more years… and no matter what costumes they think up and wear. The one they too would die to have returned to their living minutes, but aren’t built to recall, let alone appreciate.
Sure. Think back. It was there. Every single one of us. It was there, brand spanking new and untrained, and it was you.
It still is. It never won’t be. No matter how furiously genocidal maniacs work to cover it. Come and see.
Related Reading:
Fear & Loathing in Silicon Valley, Part VI: They Hate You if You’re Clever
Fear & Loathing in Silicon Valley, Part V: All on Maybe Three Hours’ Sleep
Fear & Loathing in Silicon Valley, Part IV: Interlude
Fear & Loathing in Silicon Valley, Part III: Paint it Black
Fear & Loathing in Silicon Valley, Part II – Part II – Update
Fear & Loathing in Silicon Valley, Part II – Report from the Motor Court
Fear & Loathing in Silicon Valley, Part I: Dear Solarian Hordes
Photo’s from the Secret Space Program
