Sitting in the middle of the country, it seems like I can get a bird’s eye view of the extremities crashing in on magnetic waves from the left and right coasts. Being smack dab in the middle is perhaps more metaphoric realism than I can handle.
Just this past week, Rob Brezsny posted this on Facebook; “”As much as we might be dismayed by the actions of our political leaders, I hypothesize that toppling any particular junta, clique, or elite is irrelevant unless we also overthrow the sour, puckered mass hallucination that is mistakenly called “reality,” including the part of that hallucination we foster in ourselves. The revolution begins at home. If you overthrow yourself again and again, you might earn the right to help overthrow the rest of us.”
Sounds great and golly wonderful on the surface, but I’ve heard this refrain from Brezsny before. He never wants to get his hands dirty or sullied when it comes naming perps, pointing out obvious agendas or stopping liars in their tracks. It’s this kind of spiritual solipsism that I couldn’t wait to get away fast enough from in California.
Since I’ve heard it from Rob before, or some variation of it, it feels like he’s saying, “There’s nothing you can do about it, so you might as well just do that rigorous navel gazing often defined as “inner work.” It reeks of a type of spiritual impotence masquerading as sage wisdom. Overthrow your own stifling regime first. That sounds great, but what does it mean and when are we supposedly ready to get back to the business of re-claiming the world from the psychopaths that snatched it from us?
Brezsny isn’t alone. I’ve heard variations on the theme from the likes of Mark Morford and Caroline Casey.
They don’t or won’t tackle the knotty issues of our time, like Chemtrails, 911 and the thorny rise of a totalitarian state through excessive debt that’s used as massive leverage against countries, including this one. But Rob, in particular chooses to deflect any type of focused attention on these subjects.
Meanwhile, in New York, the art-damaged millennial, Damien Crisp and I got into it on FB. Crisp apparently is some kind of well known Occupier. Unlike Brezsny, he’s down for revolution. He stands with the people of the the world in their urgent struggle against corporations and militarized tyranny. Like Rob’s taoist dictum, it sounds good on the surface, but drill down a little and you’ll find out that Crisp hates the USA and wants to see it fail and fall as the USA and it’s policies are the reason why the world is such a dreadful mess. I told him that it’s a planned demolition and the desecration of the county was a conscious manipulation, a poison PR, toxifying the global perspective of the USA so when it goes down in flames, people won’t care and will even cheer it on. I also told him to be careful what he wished for, because he might get it and the result might be even worse than the rapid free fall we’re in now.
Unlike Brezsny, he’s game for just about anything, unfortunately, he has no grounding on who did what, when and why. He’s never heard of the “Creature From Jeckyl Island,” Col. House, Bernard Baruch and the “Hell Bomb” or the dark networks that have intertwined and coiled like serpents together over the folds of history.
He wasn’t interested in these “theories.”
I’ve encountered this before with the so-called, turned on left. They never want to know names, or dates, or histories, or internecine connections. They’re much more comfortable with broad and monolithic labels like, “The Oligarchy,” “The Elite,” and now, “The One Percent.” Never mind who they are.
Crisp was just interested in ripping apart the top-down structure–that’s it.
So on side of the country there’s Rob Breszny whose only call to action is inaction and on the other, there’s Crisp who is ready to throw down, but only if it’s global nihilism with a Marxist twist..
So I decided that it would probably be best if all three of us had a cage match to determine whose overarching theory of how to save the world while ridding it of it’s evil scourge would win. I think it would go something like this.
Brezsny would show up in a pink, one piece wrestling leotard with a hole cut out for the navel, because that’s where he would place a diamond sutra. He’d have to wear Chuck Taylor’s and some of those old 3D glasses from the 50’s for ironic effect.
Crisp would no doubt agonize over his choice of attire, wanting it to be a statement of some sort, but not too much so that he could then be accused of some sort affected hipsterism. He’d probably show up in a pair of leather Gucci shorts that he would have torn, burnt and peed on as some sort of anti-corporate statement. I think he’d probably have his entire body given a Brazilian wax, so that he could stand in solidarity with the people of Sao Paolo.
Of course, I’d have to wear a pair of Ben Davis overalls, because they’re still made in America, but I’d also have to wear a hemp t-shirt underneath, just let people know that I have some alternative cred as well. I’d also have to shave my head because somebody has to be the bad guy and besides, I wouldn’t want Crisp to pull my hair.
Here’s how the epic, battle royal would go down. I think Rob and I would go at it, pummeling our well worn, middle aged bodies into the canvas of oblivion. But I think I can take Rob. My inner redneck is crazier than his inner bolshevik and I have Mars square Sun, which is thermonuclear when activated. While Rob and I are duking it out, Crisp will be Occupying the turnbuckle.
Just as i am about to put Brezsny into an iron-cross-hammer-lock, the same one that the Tibetans taught Hitler’s officers, Crisp flies off the turnbuckle, spouting Derrida, as he jumps onto my back like a jackal. Of course, while he’s going after me, Breszny recovers and is teaming up with Crisp, because if you go far enough to the edge of any extreme, they’ll both meet up and then do some sort of sweaty, ideological man hug thing.
It’s not looking good for yours truly, but just about the time when Crisp is going rip my overalls off me as sort of some symbolic gesture, there’s a flash of light and before us, Jesus appears. Although it looks a lot more like SiStar MyRah than Jesus, much to the surprise of the viewing audience.
SiStar MyRah tells us to stop–we do. Then she says that, “We’re just a by-product of strategy set up to divide and conquer all of us and that we should work together to defeat the real evil on the planet.”
Dumbfounded and in awe of this miracle, we shake our heads yes. “Okay then” she says, “Let’s make it happen!
Before we know it, right before our very eyes, the forces of evil are summoned to do battle with us, right there, right then. It’s kind of like that old Star Trek episode where Kirk, Spock, Abe Lincoln and some famous Vulcan have to fight the most evil men of the universe throughout all time on a neutral planet, refereed by an alien that looks like a giant clump of dogshit with Christmas lights.
There before us are Dick Cheney, Hilary Clinton, Benjamin Netenyahu and Bill Gates. In theory, the only one I’m worried about is Bibi, since I know he’s got some badass Kravmaga training from his IDF days.
I remind SiStar MyRah that there’s four of them and just three of us. She says don’t worry, I’ve added another member to your team. I look to my left and it’s David Wilcock! SisTar MyRah says, “I tried to find a woman to fight Hilary, but David was as close as I could get.” She also tells me that it’s been nearly ten days since Hilary’s last botox treatment and that all we have to do is hold a mirror up to her and she’ll go into full on Medusa mode.
I look at Cheney and he might not be as much of a pushover as we think. In fact, he has a new heart and the dark rumor is that it’s Trayvon Martin’s. That’s the last thing we need; the heart of an angry, young, black male whose was life was cut short. If it’s true, Cheney could be trouble. Now he supposedly has a member the size of Delaware and I doubt that even the most sophisticated supporters could hold that in.
I tell Breszny to go to the dragon’s head, because that’s where he’ll defeat the beast. Luckily, Wilcock had been working on a hyperbolic refractor that doubles as a mirror and he brought it with him. Snakes ahoy!
I mention to Crisp that Gates could be a lot more dangerous than he appears. He might have a few shots of some wicked ass vaccines hidden in his boot.
It looks like I get Bibi. I’m already exhausted from the previous match so I have to think fast. I look into the audience and there’s a hot dog vendor. I ask him if the hot dog is beef or pork and he says “pork.” Hallelujah! I grab it and brandish it right in from of Bibi’s grill. He steps backwards. It’s like kryptonite. This flaccid bludgeon of porcine menace has become my excalibur! I’m slapping Bibi in the face repeatedly with it. He’s helpless–can’t do a thing. It’s so bad, it’s like a scene from the Three Stooges and I’m Moe and he’s Curly. I’m just about to plunge the sweaty dog right into his third eye and all of sudden it’s grabbed right out of my hand by Crisp flashing a wicked grin! I’m not sure if he’s a double agent or is so hell bent on America’s destruction that like the scorpion and the frog, he just can’t help himself.
Well, by now, Bibi has recovered and summoned a 3,000 year-old Babylonian demon to finish me off. It looks bad. Lights out for America. And then I hear Breszny, “Just surrender man.” And that’s what I do. I lay back on the canvas and await my fate and just when the demon is about suck my soul dry, they all disappear–every single one of them–except SiStar MyRah. She says to me, “Robert this was all for you. All of it. You created every single one of them. Even me. And now that you let go of the struggle and the fight, they have dissolved and now I will go as well. But remember you couldn’t get here without the struggle.” And I ask, “What about them, did they get the same lesson too.” She replied, “it doesn’t matter because you’re free now and they don’t even exist. Oh and one other thing. Drop the hot dogs. Your blood pressure is 140 over 99.” And with that, she was gone.