Sirens Waling

The red pill revolution is all about refusing to honor agreements we did not participate in originating, negotiating, or finalizing. Most red pill folk object to statutory law, and regulatory and administrative law and procedure, ordinances, and the like. Common law is real law, organically forged over eons by parties vying against parties (or the state) in proper tribunals before fair juries. The rest is pretty much hogwash. What matters is tried-and-true tradition, in law and in every other aspect of society, but with a twist—a new bugaloo, which constitutes something very special.

 

Ready-made narratives known as news, current events, conventional history are suspect at the very least. The truth is almost never to be found there. Harland Gasder knew it. He knew the world was one, immense scam. Oh there were many well-intentioned folks among the unwitting scam-masters, deluded one way or another. It often left him feeling adrift, lonesome for an acknowledging colleague or two. Occasionally he would find a refuge. But it would not last long. Things do indeed fall apart. 

In the arena of “news” and “current events,” nothing can be accepted as fact anymore because now, in the 21^st Century, as never before, anything and anybody can be digitally manipulated and re-mastered to serve anyone’s purposes. (This includes the sources of reliable sources—and their sources too.)

                  

Moreover, there is no infallible filter that can separate fact from fiction; even one’s own discernment can easily be on shaky ground. Relying, as it does, on accumulated lessons and experiences of the past, one’s discernment too is likely defective, or alterable, or biased in at least some subtle way.

 

In the final analysis, it is best to rely entirely on your gut instincts, your intuition. Still, apprehending what that is and learning how to detect that in oneself is no easy task; it’s nothing short of being in communication with one’s soul. But…can’t the soul be tricked as well?

 

One’s soul is only as pure as one’s self, is it not? And there is no use traversing the inner states: the etheric, astral, subtle, non-dual…what-have-you. All may already be lost in a jumbled jungle of disarrayed logic, of arational irrationality, scientizmickly bio-engineered claptrap of the highest order long ago inserted into the inner recesses of our being by ETs. (But more on that later…)

 

WE MUST NOT GET PESSIMISTIC, NOR BE NEGATIVE!

 

There is hope: can’t we “approximate”? We might take an educated guess that our soul, if we can tune-into it, would not fool us because it cannot be fooled. But, if our souls can be fooled, then if we know that such might be the case we can forever keep our facts, our reality, in a state of suspended animation; always remaining “subject to change, revision.” Yet isn’t such a position actually known as the disease of “liberalism”: a world in which there are no fixed constants; that is forever in flux and subject to interminable “change for the better”?

Harland Gasder was writing himself into a corner again. Was he caught in some spiritual materialist cul de sac—or maybe a dead-end materialist spiritualism? He didn’t know. He hoped neither. He could only relapse into deeper ripples in the tissues of his mind, having once heard tell of this.

 

Was he committing the sin of worshipping false gods by simply seeking answers, secret knowledge from the netherworlds of the occult? Just what is the occult anyway? Isn’t that just what is hidden from view, from established belief, known knowledge, tried-and-true tradition and accepted wisdom? And was he a blasphemer to think that he can connect to the “god within”; that, just as with the Sufi mystic, Hallaj, he could announce his godhood—that he is God—but that he might somehow be punished? Weren’t the enforcers of authority in religion and spiritual matters by now so derelict anyway that he could get away with proclaiming himself God and his heretically esoteric findings as ultimate Truth?

 

On the web, that grey land where alt-folks chased so many rabbits down endless holes, Harland sensed that it was his destiny to create endless disturbances. He was not pro or con much of anything; no ideology had captured him; none had ensnared his mind. His greatest achievement was to remain aloof from all norms of (and even theories that differed from) the controlled Establishment and controlled anti-Establishment, collectively called “the System.” And out-of-control rebels were not of much interest to Harland because they usually had bad manners and were poor grammarians—or they were just barking up some tree or other that disinterested him. The anonymous patriots of the so-called 2^nd American Revolution had more character and they were way more right. Still, Harland held certain reservations he couldn’t quite articulate.

 

He had initially been excited in 1999 when that film The Matrix came out. To choose the “red pill” meant choosing to exit from the Matrix, evil, and to begin on a journey of learning the truth about one’s enslavement. But before long, everyone (in alt-circles at least) started using the term “red pill” to describe their new sensibilities, their belief systems (that had already supplanted what religion used to be for a generation or two before). It got old quickly. It was similar to the notion that anyone can become enlightened; like becoming a painter by using paint-by-numbers canvasses.

 

Being “red pilled” would surely soon become the rage. Besides being the alternative to the standard blue pill and its uniparty of “progressives” vs. “conservatives” it was gradually evolving into the Third Way, the alt-norm to the World Order. By so being, by-and-by it would get absorbed by both sides of the established System; it was already camp and cool, wacky and way-out. It might heat-up the socio-cultural thermostat until the Western hip barometer busted wide open. But this signified… nothing, really; being “red pilled” had no backing, no wealth and power behind it to make it “real,” i.e., merchantable, “bankable.” As such, it was too unreal for your run-of-the-mill red-piller to hang onto for very long. As Harland judged it, the red pill gang would eventually slide back into their old-used-to-be lethargic ways, essentially only re-arranging themselves—as with the subsidence of mud, silt and debris that gets tossed around by an unruly Mississippi River, changing the landscape and, at a minimum, unhinging those with vested property holdings thereabouts.

 

It was a cynical view—not necessarily negative or pessimistic; or was it?—maybe just realistic? (Oh, the real—too problematic a concept. Forget it.)

 

Again, Harland had to stand back and take a deep breath. Obviously he would never become a spiritual master of any sort; but he never much liked those types anyway. He couldn’t cotton to them. He’d never been in a secret society and never wanted to be; he wasn’t a joiner, period. He’d never been in intelligence, security, or government service and he found corporate types revolting. Those who had ventured in those directions, and then became red-pilled, well such folks were suspect, period. In Harland’s book there was Holy Scripture, the American founding documents, and the world’s great literature, music and art, period. His heart could always forgive, but forgetting was another matter altogether. And he had a fine memory, though it was not so good that he could be an artful liar. 

 

His research had uncovered the “whale” quite some time ago, but in the guise of Eustace Mullins quotes and background. It was a serendipitous find. For some idiot reason he had never deleted the tail of the link to discover the main page. Recently he had, however.

 

Stumbling as ever toward unlocking new vistas of understanding his discovery was a comfort to him, especially when he made the mammoth site more personal, more accessible by going here first: http://whale.to/b/whale_history.html  Autobiography had always held the magical essence-of-being that the turgid prose of paradigmatic discourse effaced. (This one was the creation of John Scudamore.) As Harland Gasder perused the long page he’d click onto the hyperlinks that were generously sprinkled within. And to his delight he found the most delicious, sometimes frightening, isles of the beautiful. It was a respite from the continual parsing of information from newsy websites that had been coughing and sputtering and plaguing his mind for too long.

 

Alas—Harland found the Motherload: a place of wonder that filled him with Holy Ghost-like optimism. He jammed his Hurst shifter into gear, revved his etheric muscle car up to 5 Gs, and dumped it; splendor-filled were the days ahead as he distended and railed his way onward through the reeds in a re-told tale of brave Ulysses.

New friends were made. Had he found "his people"? Don and Carol Croft, with their orgonite holy hand grenades and zappers looked to be like the cloud-busting friends (among others) one could never hope to find. Still, they inhabited this treasure-trove nether-region. [To Be Continued...]