By Brian George
The answer to any and all of life’s dilemmas seems to be: To eliminate the tax burden placed on the top one percent of billionaires.
Over the past few years, I have been stunned and fascinated by this phenomenon of what would appear to be self-inflicted blindness. To me, the anti-gravitational flight of UFOs or the building of the Great Pyramid of Giza are far less mysterious than a phenomenon of this type. If we were talking about a DMT induced vision, then we might expect any and all descriptions of an object to diverge, but we are talking about the realm of shared three-dimensional space. I often feel, quite literally, that I am living inside of a dream. Not only do people not seem to see the gigantic object that is right in front of them, hidden—by Plutonic as well as other archetypal forces—plain sight, but the Powers That Be have not gone to any lengths to disguise it! As any child can see, in the middle of the room there is a creature that looks just like an elephant.
About 20 years ago, I heard a Russian folk tale has stuck with me, although I don’t remember how the tale begins. At some point, however, a magical being offers to grant one with to a peasant. The peasant can have anything he wants. The only catch is that his neighbor will be given twice as much of it. The peasant thinks and thinks, and then smiles as he says, “I would like you to blind me in one eye!” At the time, I regarded this as an exotic tale. Now, it seems like a description of our day to day psychology. Strange forces are at work.
A dark cloud has been hanging above the country since the detonation of the first atomic bomb. In the 66 years since Trinity, when a mushroom cracked the sky, the dark cloud that it left does not seem to have lightened much, and, if anything, hangs even closer to the ground. Let us posit that this breach birth of “free energy” beamed a signal to the other-dimensional guardians of our race, who, in turn, issued an ultimatum to us: That we keep our eyes wide open—in order, at some point, to remember what we are. For the most part, this ultimatum has been systematically ignored. Why, then does the world look different, so that its beauty fills me with a sense of tragic joy?
Perhaps it is because, in my crude attempts to give birth to the Stone of the Philosophers, upon which I would ride, I am only just now able to intuit how the tension between opposites is in no way accidental. As Heraclitus said, “They do not apprehend how being in conflict it still agrees with itself; there is an opposing coherence, as in the tensions of the bow and lyre.” It is just this tension that we must transmute into fuel.
For example: For a group to violently argue for positions that are 180 degrees opposed to its real interests—this could reasonably be described as ignorant. Disaster follows. As night follows day, stupor follows from possession by an archetype. The helpless are punished, for they are bad, and their lack of wealth must be interpreted as a sign, just as billions more must be contributed—or else!—to the war chest of the psychopath. Outrage would be justified, but wonder is equally valid as a response. Now, when I find myself relapsing into judgment, I prefer to look at those parts of myself that I perceive as being “dead.” It is a way to shake things up, a form of metaphysical Aikido, a means to break the chain by which cause leads automatically to effect. Put simply: It is a place to begin.
My hope is—and perhaps this is a form of cowardice or a rationalization of my need for “personal space”—that any change in consciousness may obey the law of “action at a distance,” and that this change may be of use to those with the equipment to receive it. In chapter two of the Tao Te Ching we read, “Therefore the Master can act without doing anything and teach without saying a word.” And also, in chapter 36, “Just as fish remain hidden in deep water, it is best to keep weapons out of sight.”
This is not to say that I would be displeased to witness a new trend in armed confrontations on the barricades, in which squadrons of young heroes—all handsome and/or beautiful, of course—would dare to face down the massed forces of Genetically Engineered Corn, before setting fire to the headquarters of the WTO. As a precaution, it might also be advisable to drive a stake through the heart of the IMF—on the off chance that there is someone who could find it. The decentralized autocracy does not provide us with clear focal points; there are few—if any—targets that it would be useful to destroy. At a G20 protest, if the anarchist in the black bandana is an undercover cop, and the rock thrown through the window can be used as the pretext for a crackdown, then how would it be possible to determine who has won? Soon, coming to a mall near you: Designers will explore new concepts in guerilla marketing to promote their lines of Black Bloc street-fighting couture! I would probably tend to agree with the most radical of diagnoses, or even to propose that they do not go far enough, but any large scale surgery on the Body Politic I must trust to those with more ideological pep.
(Illustration: Max Beckmann, Hell of Birds)