Confessions of a Secret Controlled Demolitions Special Operative for 911

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Confessions of a Secret Controlled Demolitions Special Operative for 911

An insane person knows they are sane and the rest of the world is crazy, and that is why it should be feared. A truly sane person knows they are crazy and the rest of the world is sane, and that is why it should be feared. I have learned from experience that the best way for me to speak with other people is: not at all. I have learned from experience that everything that people tell me is correct, and I should never let on that I rarely if ever believe them. As far as everybody is concerned: you are right, I am crazy.

But now I’ve had a chilling life-and-death health scare, and it made me realize that before I die I should finally confess to the American People about being a secret controlled demolitions special operative for 911. Everything you have secretly believed, and could never let on about, is true. Here is my story.

In the 1980s I was working on the secret Orbiting Space Laser Weapons Platform (OSLWP) project for the US Government. Believe me, they’re up there now; they’re just not telling you, it is TOP SECRET. The HARP Project was just a low level test run experiment during the development of the OSLWP.

I had gotten a Physics Ph.D. from an Ivy League University, and was recruited into the Nuclear Weapons Program a few years earlier. I designed an electronic sensor that was able to measure the rate of fusion burn in the golfball-sized spark plug at the core of fissioning uranium and plutonium atom bombs. Only the U.S. has this, and I did it. Because of this, I was then double secretly posted into the OSLWP project, and my identity in the outside world was completely erased, until now.

During the late 1980s and early 1990s, we were building OSLWP modules in the vast underground MX Missile Railway Complex, the expansion and completion of which with weapons manufacturing and assembly capabilities is another TOP SECRET. Those modules would be loaded into the cargo bays of the USAF robotic mini Space Shuttles (whose existence is no longer a secret) at AREA 51, which is linked by the MX Underground Railroad (MXUR). By the way, the steak restaurant in the MX Underground Weapons Manufacturing Complex (MXUWMC) is top notch, as is the bar (one dollar for top shelf doubles of martinis and 18-year scotch!, and yes I often got hammered on the US taxpayers’s nickel).

The OSLWP fleet was assembled piece by piece robotically in space, the engineers doing the work remotely from MXUWMC, by video link and joysticks. The huge underground supercomputer banks doing all the calculations and command and control generate so much heat that they have to be cooled by an underground river diverted from the Colorado River by a deep rock-cut tunnel.

By 2000, the OSLWP fleet had been up and running for a few years, and work down in the MXUWMC had dropped off very significantly, mainly just legacy maintenance and guarding classified data banks. Layoff after layoff happened, and I thought my high-paying high-tech career would suddenly come to a close, and I’d have to live off my savings from there on out. I would always be a designated security risk under surveillance by the CIA’s secret Homeland Monitoring Department in the FBI (yes, it exist, another secret they’re not telling you about), because of the Government’s fear that I might inadvertently “spill the beans” to coworkers if I was to get an outside job, which they did not want me to do.

So after I got my notice on July 4th, 2000, I just stayed home and drank my own martinis. I wasn’t much fun for the wife and kids, but then I had never been able to tell them anything anyway, while now at least I was home regularly at nights and available to take out the garbage cans once a week for the pickup. Dullsville 24/7, and staying off the telephone.

Then one day I got a visit from an old buddy of mine who was an Army Ranger and had been a guard at MXUWMC. Guards at MXUWMC had to have proven search-and-destroy capabilities, and my drinking buddy ‘Keith’ had lots of secret missions under his belt. He’d parachuted into Vietnam in late 1975 (after the US withdrawal and the official end of the war) to find and lead out a group of 86 people hiding in the jungle from the Communists: rich bankers and their families who were also hauling crates of gold bars. He and his squad (not all surviving) guided this group to an isolated spot on the Vietnamese coast and loaded them onto a waiting US submarine, for evacuation. In 1980 ‘Keith’ was secreted into Poland at night from a German S-100 Class Schnellboot (a WWII war trophy now used by the CIA’s Naval Branch), where he was to reconnoiter the Solidarity Movement and try to recruit in-country anticommunist spy assets, particularly for monitoring Soviet military movements. ‘Keith’ was the “muscle” of the small team which included a CIA political officer who was also a Polish language expert. ‘Keith’s’ souvenir from that trip was the beret of the Soviet Special Forces sentry he killed during the team’s extraction (I’ve seen this beret, it has a beautiful emblem in Cyrillic sown in). ‘Keith’s’ proven performance as a special op gave him lots of credibility with MXUWMC Security, so they recruited him for a Guard job in 1982, and that’s where we met and traded stories many nights at the MXUWMC bar: “Thor’s Cave.”

‘Keith’s’ kind of an ADHD sort of guy and he left MXUWMC after three years, but he didn’t leave the secret world we were both part of (okay, let’s call it the ‘Deep State’). He went out and made tons of money as a CIA approved and vetted assassin in the employ of the apartheid South African Government, from 1985 to 1990. While John Perkins made his splash with his book Confessions Of An Economic Hit Man, dishing about his times as a national foreign economy disruptor secretly employed by the US Government, ‘Keith’ was the ultimate type of person-as-weapon employed by the US Deep State: a jackal, a man with a gun, a Swiss bank account, and any passport of his choosing anytime he wanted it. So I lost contact with ‘Keith’ during the years that he was dispatching African nationalist activists and union organizers in several African countries south of the Equator, for the South African Defence Forces (SADF), and burying his bounties in gold in the cellars of his various foreign retreats, and in Switzerland.

So I was really surprised to see ‘Keith’ on my doorstep in the autumn of 2000, when everybody was all hopped up about the election tussle between George W. Bush’s people and Al Gore’s. That was obviously going to be a no-brainer as the Supreme Court made blindingly clear. Deep State rules. ‘Keith’ had been tasked to bring me a very tasty offer for getting back into the Deep State fast action high tech world I had been so enthralled by. The project was being run by Dick Cheney, and its purpose was to reshape the World Order to secure another century of US control. How could I say no?, plus, the pay was astronomical (and thanks to the US taxpayers!).

And that is how I was recruited into the most complex US false flag operation in history: the secret controlled demolition of the World Trade Center: a cover for launching the Global War On Terror, which is really the War For Complete National Control and World Domination, though of course they never call it that or let any of that phraseology appear in any written memo or in any electronic file. Those of us who already had long histories of working deeply in dark government programs all knew the drill about “security.”

By the way, being drunk really messes up the readings of their polygraph tests on you, which is fun. But then they just keep you in the tank until you sober up, and you have to take it over and over again until they’re satisfied. Dreary. They respect your technical skill and prize that, but not your humanity. You’re just a tool.

Once I again had access to supercomputers, engineers and laboratory technicians, I set about calculating what arrays and minimum doses of charges could collapse tall buildings instantly. My experience as a young physicist working on nuclear bomb detonation tests, years before, came in very handy here. Now at MXUWMC, I had laboratory scale models built and tested in blast-wall confined cells. It was good to be back in MXUWMC, now refurbished for Cheney’s GWOT false flag kick-off project.

None of us had any moral qualms about this work because we all knew GWOT911 (yeah, another of our ’spoken only’ acronyms) was a necessary operation to insure the best for the continuation of the American Way Of Life. That phrase meant a lot to us, and we would refer to it affectionately amongst ourselves as AWOL — really, I’m not kidding. I guess we all believed the operation would be carried out at night on a long holiday weekend when the WTC buildings would be empty. But, hey, you know how it is, people always believe the best about themselves and about what they are doing. We were no different, at least for those of us below the level of the Inner Council of the Directorate, basically Cheney’s roundtable (which George W. Bush was escorted into a few times, or so I heard from ‘Keith’, as Security Guard scuttlebutt).

Anyway, my calculations and experiments worked out really great, and jibbed with the best results of the other controlled demolitions designers in the GWOT911 Physics Department. So from our pooled results, the technological component packages were blueprinted and built in the MXUWMC factory. When it came time to select Emplacement Teams (ETs), I was selected as the “physics lead” for Team 6, and I got Keith’ as the “muscle” leader for my team. My small platoon comprised of 20 people; the other 18 were a mix of demolition emplacement techs, electronics and circuitry interruption specialists, and security troopers like ‘Keith’. This was exciting adrenaline-pumping work.

In less than two weeks, staged as HVAC, plumbing, elevator, and electrical conduit repairmen working through the Labor Day weekend of 2001, all our teams got the WTC Twin Towers and Building 7 wired for demolition. Then we were sent home and scattered, without knowing the date of execution or even if the operation would actually be carried out.

It didn’t take long to find out. On 11 September 2001, the WTC buildings were blown, and those collapses were caught on many cameras for the world to see and be humbled into submission by the awesome yet cloaked power of the Deep State that controls us. I was as surprised as all of you to see this. I call it the American Fatima, because so many people watching the televised visions of 911 got a miraculously instant engineering and physics education that day.

That night, ‘Keith’ came and picked me up for a ride in an unmarked government limo. By then I had come to realize that he was my personal security monitor for GWOT911. Frankly, I thought I might be living out the last scene in The Friends Of Eddie Coyle, because of what ‘Keith’ was capable of. But it turned out to be much sweeter than that. The GWOT911 Directorate realized that they needed to ramp up and maintain a long-term undercover disinformation program to confuse the public and keep a lid on the real purpose of the 911 ‘Spectacle’ (that’s what we GWOT911 insiders call the events known to the public as “September 11”: “the Spectacle”), and ‘Keith’ had been sent to retrieve me for induction into that effort. I got a really nice seafood dinner in San Francisco that night — and of course martinis before dinner, and 18-year scotch after — for listening to that spiel and getting read into the program. Hey, more big chunks of change electronically dumped into my bank account for the next seven years of easy work. My cover was “retired physicist” (for the nuclear bomb work) who wrote amateur essays supporting the “official story” of the 911 events as being solely the work of Osama Bin Laden and his 19 Saudi henchmen (who were all expendables supplied to GWOT911, through Cheney, as part of the ‘Washington-Allied Oil Industry’s’ compliance with the plan).

The problem for the GWOT911 Directorate was that 300 million Americans, and billions of people worldwide, had seen the Twin Towers and Building 7 fall on TV, and they all just knew that these had to be controlled demolitions (I mean, you can see it, right? Who believes you need an engineering degree to think differently?). And besides, no one in America was believing that “Arabs in caves” could conceive of and then execute such a daring and devastating operation on American soil. So I was recruited to become one of many “internet influencers” tasked with thwarting the messaging that had started coming out of what soon became known as the ‘truther community.’ For me this was easy work at first, but it soon became boring. Like gravity, the truthers just never quit. It became clear to me that truther belief would live forever, and it was ultimately a waste of my time to continue opposing it. But the income from doing it was good, so I slogged on without any enthusiasm.

Between 2002 and 2008 many big engineering reports were issued detailing the technicalities of the official story, and a huge number of photographs were published of scattered airliner debris in Pennsylvania and at the Pentagon. I know how much of all that was real, but I’ll leave you to your own guesses about that (this story is already too long, and I’ve got to wrap it up).

However, I will give you one more little tidbit about Spectacle Day. Wiring up the Twin Towers took up 22 of the 24 ETs, so Building 7 was shortchanged on getting more than 2 Emplacement Teams, which then had to rush their work because they each had over twice as many floors to wire up. As a result, they slipped up a bit. Some of WTC7’s charges dudded, others misfired out of synch, and so the building stayed standing while highly damaged internally, and burning from fires ignited by burning WTC1 debris falling into it. The fires in WTC7 could not be extinguished because the water mains under the street had been cut by the collapse of WTC1, and all the fire suppression systems were rendered inoperative. Many hours later on that day, WTC7 finally collapsed.

By 2007, I had grown disillusioned that GWOT911 would really lead to a beneficial transformation of appropriately guided American democracy, and assured prosperity for the American people. You know how it is, we technical propeller-heads are not real good at political insight. And smart as I’d always thought I was, I finally came to fully realize this was so true of me, too. By then truther consciousness had become very subdued in American public discourse, thanks in no small part to people like me, so despite the fact that it would never really disappear altogether the Directorate now considered it innocuous, like the common cold, and deemed it ignorable.

So on 9 October 2008, Keith’ came to pay me one last visit. His message from the Directorate was simple and clear. We were both cut loose to live quietly on our savings from there on out, and never to break the security regulations of our lifetime Official Secrets contracts — we’d be watched. ‘Keith’ and I then went out and had a fabulous filet mignon plus shrimp scampi dinner at Scott’s Seafood at Jack London Square, with lots of Maker’s Mark and Woodford’s bourbon and sodas. ‘Keith’ is a straight bourbon man, I’m bi with either bourbon or vodkatinis, and ‘Keith’ was buying, spending from his saved up lavish SADF per diems. Soon after, ‘Keith’ flew off — I don’t know where — to one of his personal gold-bottomed dark sites situated in a beautiful resort setting where bevies of nubile and compliant pleasure angels were certain to be available for his company. ‘Keith’ is a simple straightforward guy when it comes to “the meaning of life.”

The coup de grâce of the Financial Crash of 2008 hit the next day — “another controlled demolition,” I thought to myself. The ensuing frenzy in the US government over that economic chaos made them forget about outcasts like me, and I never got any messages from the Deep State again. So I just puttered along in my life of birdwatching, and writing my little ‘political word doodles’ that I post occasionally on the internet. This was just a way for me to ward off boredom, by continuing with a writing habit I’d been habituated to from my days as a covert anti-truther influencer.

We physics people, especially in MXUWMC and GWOT911, all knew about global warming from way back, of course. But that was unmentionable on the outside, and the expendables the Oil Industry was tasked with supplying for Spectacle Day were part of the price the Deep State demanded as payment from the Oil Industry to keep global warming off the public radar screen (I’m sure you can guess who the Dark Lord was who mediated that arrangement). Believe me, all those high-end people are pure business, they don’t have friends, they only have “interests.”

I’m a conventional guy, I have kids, I want the best for them and I know where our future is headed, and I now had the freedom to write openly about climate change. Naïvely — and we propeller-heads are always naïve — I thought my warnings on climate change could arouse the public, and that it in turn would influence our government, and all governments, to really take action changing national infrastructure to transform our energy and food systems for a sustainable society and sustainable human civilization. And so I spent more than the last decade happily writing for that. But that revolution never came. I guess I’m just a dreamer, tech-savvy and socio-politically dumb.

Then this year I got a medical diagnosis, and my long view into the future collapsed (another controlled demolition) into a much shorter timeline. I’m not a praying kind of guy, I like to think of myself as a realist who is logical — and moral. So I came to the conviction to “spill the beans.” Why not, what can they do to me now? And who cares anyway? Nobody pays attention, nobody notices anything, nobody listens to anybody, and everyone is their own expert who does their own research: usually on the toilet with a smartphone.

So that’s my story. You can believe it or not as you like, I don’t care. I’m at peace for having told it, in fact I rather enjoyed myself doing so. I’ll just be birdwatching and word doodling all my happy days from here on out. All I can tell you beyond that is this: it’s your world now, folks, take care of it if you want it to last (but I don’t think you will).

Cheerio.

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Louis N. Proyect (1945-2021), Light Saber of Truth

Michael D. Yates (27 August 2021):

It is with great sadness that I announce my good friend, Louis Proyect, has died. He had a serious illness for some time. He died peacefully in his sleep on August 25. I will miss him greatly, and I assume you will as well. Louis was a voracious reader, and almost every day, he posted links to articles from a wide variety of sources on multiple subjects, from politics and economics to music and philosophy to physics and ecology. I am sure we have all learned a great deal from his posts. He did much in his life, through his efforts in Nicaragua and South Africa, for example, and with his voluminous writing, to push radical transformation forward. He allied himself with leftists around the world. He seemed to know just about everybody. Those who knew him personally know that he was a good human being, always willing to help a friend, no matter where in the world that person happened to be. He and his wife Mine showed me and my partner many kindnesses over the years. Goodbye, Louis. You will live on in our hearts and in our efforts to change the world.

Manuel García, Jr. (in response):

I first became aware of Louis N. Proyect in 2003, when I began writing for Swans (Gilles d’Aymery’s internet magazine), where Louis was an established presence. Over the 18 years since then we have had many exchanges (all over the internet, sadly; and all good, happily), and I learned a great deal from him. I was even able to teach him some things, mainly about science. We were both native New Yorkers, and he was very much the archetypical kind of good-hearted prickly exterior quick witted wise ass Jew that I had grown up surrounded by (and especially with one cherished college professor who hailed from Brooklyn). He had that refreshing “what’s it to ya'” attitude that doesn’t seem to cut it so well west of the Hudson River; but which can be so essential to cut through the crap when you really need to solve a problem (and my secret weapon out here in Californicate). On 10 July 2021, I read the ‘comic book’ style biography of Louis that he had posted (in several parts) on his blog, and wrote to tell him how redolent it was of the times and scenes I had grown up through. By then I had reached a point in my life where I told people outright if I appreciated them, because I didn’t want to accumulate more regrets. And I told Louis that in our exchanges on July 10 and then again in our exchanges on July 17, my last personal e-mail contact/exchange with him. Louis appreciated my gesture and said so. After that I could see from his blog that he was trying to get as much done as he could, as the phenomenon we all knew as Louis Proyect. I’ve lost a brother, older, and often “pesado,” but dearly loved. What I liked most about Louis was that he never let ideology confine his moral sense — his heart; his primal motivation was his deep moral sense of solidarity with all human beings, and his fiery outrage at the injustice of the sufferings of the humble, the weak, the exploited, the “salt of the earth.” He was a mensch.

He was absolutely correct on Syria — and Libya — neither of which the comfy doctrinaire ‘left’ herd have been able to face up to yet. Louis was a Light Saber of Truth.

Louis N. Proyect was the only leftist to publicize my article on chemical warfare in Syria (a commissioned piece, rejected, that went against the grain of herd orthodoxy). We both hate dictators regardless of their stripes.
https://manuelgarciajr.com/2021/07/09/chemical-warfare-in-syria-and-its-corrosiveness-beyond/

Adam Weissman (27 August 2021):

“One of the all-too-few voices on the left who challenged the lies of campists and the brutal dictators they shill for. A fierce and passionate defender of the Syrian people. He will be sorely missed.”

Link to Louis Proyect autobiography
https://louisproyect.org/2021/07/06/the-unrepentant-marxist-comic-book-final-chapter/

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’Stateless’, an Australian Television Drama about Refugee Detention

’The Trojan Women,’ a play was Euripides, was first performed in Athens 2,436 years ago at the height of the disastrous Peloponnesian War. It is considered a commentary on the capture of the Aegean island of Melos and the subsequent slaughter of its men and the enslavement of its women by the Athenians earlier that year, 415 BCE.

This play focuses on four women awaiting their fates after the fall of Troy (~1,200 BCE, in northwest Turkey near the Dardanelles): Hecuba (the wife of the slain king, Priam), Cassandra (the beautiful virginal daughter of Priam and Hecuba, who was blessed and then cursed by a lustful Apollo, with having a gift of prophesy none would listen to), Andromache (the wife of the great Trojan hero, Hector, who was slain by Achilles), and Helen (the Achaean queen and wife of King Menelaus of Sparta, who ran off with Paris to Troy, and which elopement was the purported cause for the Achaeans’s war against Troy).

The three Trojan women would all be made concubines and slaves by the Achaeans (mainland Greeks), and Helen returned to Menelaus. Because the Greeks wanted to ensure there would be no surviving male heir to the Trojan throne, they took Astyanax, the infant son of Hector and Andromache and the grandson of Priam and Hecuba, up to the high parapet of Troy and tossed him down to his death on the rocks below.

In 5th and 4th Century BCE Athens, the playwrights were known as poets and called teachers, and in ’The Trojan Woman’ Euripides was desperately and dramatically striving to teach the Athenians that the horrors of the Peloponnesian War were destroying the soul of their society, and that they should find ways of extricating their city-state from the war. His vehicle to convey that larger message to the Athenians was this dramatization of the final days in the death of the Trojan city-state eight centuries earlier (if in fact it was a single real historical event), as told in Greek myths recounted by legendary poets like Homer and his many forgotten colleagues.

’Stateless’, an Australian 6-part television series that was launched in 2020, is about a refugee and ‘illegal immigrant’ detention center, and strikes me as being similar to ‘The Trojan Woman’ as a societal teaching drama. It is both a searing depiction full of human and political insights about the current refugee crisis in Australia, as well as a close analogy for similar tragic realities along the US-Mexican border, in Libya and southern Italy, in Syria and the Greek Islands; and in other places where minorities and disfavored ‘others’ live precariously without stable statehood and are internally displaced or incarcerated, as in Syria, ‘Kurdistan’, Palestine, and the Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region. The writers of ’Stateless’, Elise McCredie and Belinda Chayko have done a magnificent job. The directors, Emma Freeman and Jocelyn Moorhouse have made an absorbing and compelling visual work (https://www.netflix.com/title/81206211).

How many refugees are there around the world? The UN Refugee Agency, UNHCR (https://www.unhcr.org/figures-at-a-glance.html) states that: “At least 82.4 million people around the world have been forced to flee their homes. Among them are nearly 26.4 million refugees, around half of whom are under the age of 18. There are also millions of stateless people, who have been denied a nationality and lack access to basic rights such as education, health care, employment and freedom of movement. At [this] time 1 in every 95 people on earth has fled their home as a result of conflict or persecution.”

We must add that the deleterious effects of climate change — crop failures and lack of drinking water from extended droughts, and the loss of land, housing and employment due to violent weather and flooding — has also spurred refugee streams.

Those refugee streams flow out of the tropical and sub-tropical latitudes: from Africa northward across the Mediterranean Sea to Europe, up from Central America and Mexico and across the Caribbean Sea to North America, southward from Eastern Asia to Australia, and from the arid interior of the Middle East westward toward the Mediterranean Sea and Europe.

Americans, Europeans and Australians see these refugee streams as incoming waves of impoverished humanity comprised of dark-skinned people with cultures, mind frames and languages vastly different from their own, and thus a threat to American, European and Australian prosperity, and their existing ethnic balances, if too large an influx. We must realize that these refugee streams course back up along the gradients of wealth leading from the Global South to the Global North (and Australia), propelled by the pent up pressure of economic disparity created by over half a millennium of conquest and imperialism with over three centuries of slavery, by the White people of the north: the Europeans and the descendants of their American and other colonists.

The Australian television series ’Stateless’ is composed of a weave of four sub-plots, each about a person caught up in and then piteously twisted to the breaking point by the day-to-day reality of escalating crisis in the asylum-seeker Braxton Detention Center. All these stories are based on actual case histories. Threatened men and women become refugees and are driven to acts of desperation, they are victimized, families are torn apart, some eventually find sanctuary while many others languish indefinitely or perish. Low-level workers in the host countries looking to hang onto paychecks are shoved by higher level bureaucrats and policy-makers to go in and do the dirty work of “keeping a lid on” and also “making it look good for the public.” And the sanctimonious of all stripes on the outside are more often than not “virtue signaling” for their own ego boosts, than having any useful empathy for all the individuals mired in the toxic tangle of “the system.”

One story in ‘Stateless’ is based on the real case of Cornelia Rau, an Australian woman citizen who was emotionally disturbed at the time and who was inadvertently — and unlawfully — incarcerated by the Australian government’s Department of Immigration and Multicultural and Indigenous Affairs (DIMIA), and held for 10 months during 2004-2005 under the country’s mandatory detention policy for refugees, until Cornelia was traced to Braxton by a relative, and correctly identified and released to a hospital.

Another sub-plot focuses on an Afghani family fleeing the Taliban, being cheated and robbed by criminal human traffickers in Pakistan, being separated while attempting to make the perilous sea voyage to Australia in rickety boats, with the survivors eventually finding each other at Braxton. But the effort of the Afghani father to gain entry visas for his surviving family proves to be a very heartbreaking and essentially impossible effort. Despite some commendable humanitarian impulses by Australian workers tasked with maintaining the day-to-day operations of the center, and of some right-minded procedures embedded in the immigration policy, that policy is nevertheless largely fueled by a great deal of officially mandated bigotry and prejudice.

The conflict between offering a welcoming humanitarian response to the desperation of the trapped refugees terrified of being deported back to certain death, and the politically motivated mandates from the central government to maintain this bureaucratic structure for continuing exclusion, and without arousing public attention to it, is personified by the story of the woman appointed as the new director of the center. She is emotionally torn apart by the inherent cruelty of the job, and her political expendability to the remote higher-ups.

The last of the four sub-plots in ‘Stateless’ centers on a local rural freelance mechanic who seeks to leave precarity behind and support his young family with a steady paycheck earned working as a ‘prison’ guard at the detention center — though he is instructed that it is a refugee center and not a prison since its residents, despite having no freedom of motion, have not been placed there for the commission of crimes. This individual is a good-hearted fellow who quickly comes under unrelenting strain because of his repulsion at the cruelty toward unruly refugees by a sadistic guard, and because of the numerous requirements for him to perform rough enforcement actions on people exhibiting outbursts of anger, fear and madness. Both the emotional and physical traumas sustained in doing his job while trying to thread the needle between the frayed edges of UNHCR compassionate supervision of a precarious population, and the barbed razor sharp edges of bureaucratically enforced nationalism, nearly deaden his heart and rip apart his family.

Each of the four sub-plots in ‘Stateless’ is populated with many supporting characters who enrich the presentation, and the entire ensemble presents the full spectrum of human experiences that take place in the turbulent focal point of mixing-nonmixing between Australian society and Asian refugees at the Braxton Detention Center.

The ultimate solution to the world’s refugee crisis is so far out of view: ending all wars to establish a lasting world peace, and ensuring intelligent economic development up to decent standards everywhere so that people can remain in their countries with their families experiencing physical and economic security and good health down through the generations. Achieving these conditions would obviate the need for anyone to become a refugee and seek foreign asylum.

Yes, this is idealistic (naïvely so?, impossibly?), like wanting equitable worldwide cooperation to stop anthropogenic greenhouse gas emissions so as to tamp down the acceleration of global warming. But neither of these ideals is intrinsically impossible to actualize, and that is why the continuation of the refugee and climate crises are such tragedies: they are fundamentally unnecessary sorrows, open and festering wounds on the body of humanity.

What we have today is a compounded system of exploitation through tiered victimhood, a system commanded by über capitalists and nationalistic warlords living luxuriant lives, and served by hierarchical cascades of lower level petty boss bureaucrats, their functionaries, and in turn their laborers and armed enforcers. This system is so abhorrent that Nature itself has abandoned us, and is trying to burn us off the land and wash us away into the seas and oceans we have thoughtlessly poisoned with our wastes. An added cruelty to this accelerating rejection of humanity by Nature is that those who are suffering now, and first, and will suffer the most from the increasing hostility of Earth’s climatic conditions to human life are the people of the Global South (the Third World), the regions from which today’s refugee streams emerge, the poorest of Earth’s people, those who lead the most precarious lives, and those who contributed the least to the creation of the global climate crisis.

Coda: a Meditation on ’Stateless’

Must I have a stone heart to preserve a sane mind in a world of pure suffering I am luckily insulated from — for now? How does one combat compassion fatigue and empathy burnout? Does one sink into survivor’s guilt for blamelessly being born lucky?; for living in a bubble of comfort, freedom and justice that is much rarer than one had previously imagined?; and that seems to be diminishing by national policy out of view of its lucky inhabitants confident in their unawareness? But of those lucky people who do become aware, how do they survive and stay human without deadening their souls? We have become a race of monomaniacal blind cyclopses raging about our freedoms because we cannot conceive of anything beyond our own frustrated infantile selfishness. Becoming aware of the sufferings of others is the first step in the very long journey of personal redemption. That journey has many perils, and no one completes it unscathed.

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The Idea of America

52 State Flag (proposed); if add Puerto Rico and Washington, D.C.

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The Idea of America

America is an idea struggling to free itself from slavery and the many degradations that slavery entails: conquest, genocide, racism, classism, sexism, exploitation imposed by fear of starvation, and regimentation into legions of thuggish enforcers and cannon fodder used as pawns for self aggrandizement by the kings, queens, bishops, executioners, and judges of the social order.

There is rebellion trembling in the souls of the people, looking up to the fabled blue sky of their dreams from the dank dark depths of their wells of desperation; and looking out with bleary eyes to the hazy lost horizons for unrealized promises, from the burnt lands and baking deserts of their isolated naked vulnerability.

What do you do when you fall far from help? You sit waiting until you can get up, and then you go on. On!

Those that survive to do this embody the earth tremors of the idea of America struggling to erupt into freedom ruled by justice, fortified by intelligence, ennobled by compassion; an eruption that will inevitably require a crisis that may unleash tragic cruelties because the unyielding resistance against the pressure for social change — by the slaveowners, the speculators, the profiteers — could only be broken by a terrible and searing explosive force.

The idea of America will find its lasting peaceful freedom in solidarity by the resurrection of America in the aftermath of its last death in its last civil war. Who can know if they will live to see this? All that we can know is that the idea is undying.

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Why Does the Physical Universe Exist?

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Why Does the Physical Universe Exist?

Why do we even imagine we can ask such a question and find an answer?

The total energy of the universe exploded out of an infinitesimal pinpoint of reality erupting into the void of nonexistence, to cool and diffuse as the wake behind the expanding bow wave of the Event Horizon, precipitating into the swelling space-time of intergalactic, interstellar and interplanetary emptiness, and granulating into matter-energy that expresses gravitational potential by its mass distribution; that itself slowly contracts into accumulative material bodies, and ultimately into light-void centers of matter extinction that in their turn evaporate their confined energy by quantum flickering between existence and nonexistence, until those singularities of space-time pop back into nonexistence once voided of any reality.

Will that cycling between existence and nonexistence also be enacted by the Event Horizon? Will it just diffuse away into the void of nonexistence?, or will it rebound into a new universal contraction?, or will it oscillate in some as yet unknown Limit Cycle alternating existences and nonexistences? Could we guess that such a coiling and uncoiling was inherent in the Totality, as reflected in the eddies of reality shed behind the Event Horizon and which we see as the cycles of birth, life, death and rebirth?, down to the coiling and uncoiling of the very molecules that convey the persistent genetic patterns of which we each are momentary expressions and disposable links of Life’s transmission?

Why do we imagine there could be a Supreme Consciousness creating and controlling this dynamic? Why would such a Supreme Metaphysical Constant, beyond any limitations of space, time, materiality, personality, emotion, ego, boredom and need, bother with the triviality of creating a toy universe of existence to occupy and confine its unlimited awareness? Is this not simply a yearning on our part for magical extensions of our brief flashes of confused awareness of eternity: for a heaven, or even a hell? Isn’t our existential philosophizing just another vortex coiling and uncoiling in the human psyche tumbling us distractedly along our brief stretches of time?

For us the answers may all lie in our acceptance of tumbling along with grace and kindness, and without fearful clinging to the questioning. In doing that we may experience the constancy of the eternal during a few moments within our brief spans of conscious awareness. Of course we will never know, but miraculously we do have the choice to live as though that were true.

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Jury Duty in the Inferno

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Jury Duty in the Inferno

Civilization only exists
where people take care of each other.

Social conditions of poverty and privation
breed criminality of desperation for survival.

Social conditions of exclusionary wealth and privilege
breed criminality of narcissistic rapacity.

The judicial institutions of such inequitable societies
prosecute the former to protect the latter:
preserving the Status Quo.

The only measure of Divine Retribution that exists today
is the Planetary Convulsion
that implacably burns inequity away from the bottom up,
and then drowns the ashes.

The only measure of Divine Mercy available today
lies in that which is universally reviled and scorned:
the Great Embrace.

May the Void have mercy on your souls,
but there can be no mercy for the soulless.

A thin black line between layers of mudstone
will mark the time when Men and Women lived and died,
to a Timeless Unconscious World that neither sees it nor knows it.

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Time To Saw Through Our Ankle

Image from Near Term Human Extinction Evidence Group

Jeffrey St. Clair writes, on 9 August 2021:

“How is the new IPCC report substantially different from any of the other IPCC reports? The planet is warming. Human activity caused it. There is only a limited amount of time to take action in order to forestall the most extreme outcome. The report is a prelude to yet another global climate conference, where more non-biding, incremental measures will be agreed upon by the very leaders who profit from inaction, amid much self-congratulatory backslapping about how fraught the process was. Meanwhile, the forests burn, the permafrost melts, the methane percolates, the droughts deepen, the seas rise, the rivers flood, and the hurricanes line up in the Atlantic basin like jetliners over O’Hare.”

That prompted me to this:

At the end of the Mad Max movie (the very first one), Max cuffs, by the ankle, one of the psychopaths that killed his family, to an overturned car whose ruptured gas tank is leaking, dripping. He props a lit cigarette lighter near the drip, and tosses the prisoner a hacksaw. Max says: “Those cuffs are made of high tensile steel, it takes about 10 minutes to saw through them, the gas should explode by then. It only takes about 5 minutes to saw through your ankle.” He then drives away slowly. In the distance through his rearview mirror he sees a big explosion, the prisoner never emerged.
https://youtu.be/XHQA3DeBO40

That’s the situation of our Status Quo: it doesn’t want to saw through its ankle, cuffed to the gas.

My friend Sergio Romero reacted to the above as follows:

“Nowhere have I read or heard in relation to this IPCC report any criticism of capitalism, or even reforms of it that might slow or alter its extractive processes for profit.”

And so I went on as follows:

Because the IPCC is in reality a grouping of government agencies (the individuals are appointed by their governments), all grouped under one umbrella as a UN project/committees, its charter is very strictly limited as to what areas it can study, report on and comment/recommend about. They can talk about the “science,” and to a lesser extent about “remediation” strategies. But they can’t out-and-out criticize the world economic and political order explicitly.

Back during Bush II the head of the IPCC was removed and replaced by Bush-led political pressure because he was seen as too critical in those forbidden areas. The best the IPCC can do is to frame its reports so that the obvious, though unstated, conclusion is that capitalism kills and must be ended, or the Planet will end for us. The IPCC alone cannot save us.

Greta Thunberg has it right: taking it to the streets by massive popular protests to ultimately compel governments to shift their allegiances to the people instead of capital and corporations, because otherwise those governments themselves will perish, be overturned: revolution; this is what is needed.

In one way or another, we’ll have to saw our ankle, and it will hurt all the way through and feel like it’s taking forever “to escape.” For energy gluttons, a post-carbon world will seem like sore one-legged limping compared to the easy-for-the-wealthier high-emissions ante-carbon good-life. Otherwise, it will be more and more of what we are seeing now — drought, fire, hurricane, flood — as time progresses.

The Science-Guy part of me knows that if we all embraced the change, we could have an amazingly exhilarating and fulfilling time (of decades) creating a truly wonderful world for all. The Dark-Poet part of me has little faith that people in general are up to the task. The Craggy and Sentimental parts of me combine to keep pushing for the vision of the Science-Guy, because I don’t want to give up and make it easier (by one) for the dickhead fuckers to have it all their way in ruining the Planet (and vampiring on human society); and because I am a self-realized Don Quixote who can at least keep making his puny farcical efforts to maintain a tattered self-respect.

“Anyone who ever had a heart” would think of the kids and their world to come.

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Seventeen Beatitudes Heard By Sister Kathryn On The Pilgrimage

Seventeen Beatitudes Heard By Sister Kathryn On The Pilgrimage

Blesséd are the dispirited poor,
for theirs is the greatest claim for succor by society.

Blesséd are those who grieve,
for theirs is the greatest claim for empathy from all.

Blesséd are the meek,
for theirs is the calmness that assuages our struggles.

Blesséd are the merciful,
for they dispel the terrors of abandonment.

Blesséd are those who hunger for social justice,
for they make the progress of social enlightenment.

Blesséd are those who advance cooperation,
for they displace enmity and conflict with peace.

Blesséd are those who defend the weak,
for they impart strength and raise gratitude.

Blesséd are the resistors of oppressors and persecution,
for they inspire courage in rebellion against defeat.

Blesséd are the good-hearted,
for they infuse society with unifying confidence.

Blesséd are those who laugh and play,
for they add sparkles of mirth to our lives.

Blesséd are those who study without arrogance,
for they educate and liberate us from prejudice.

Blesséd are the selflessly creative,
for they spark the same artfulness in others.

Blesséd are those who love without grasping,
for they nurture character growth in our children.

Blesséd are those who nurture the Earth,
for they feed us all down the generations.

Blesséd are those who see divinity in all living things,
for they unite the consciousness of All-Life.

Blesséd are those who keep company with the lonely,
for they bring reassurance that allows for departure.

Blesséd are those who inspire you to do as these,
for they keep the torch of the human spirit lit.

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