The Alternative Current

 Good Morning. Welcome to the Paranoid Alien Radio Hour. This is Paranoid Alien Radio, broadcasting out of Roswell New Mexico on 1519 Killing Hurts. Is there an immigration lawyer in the house? All of our little green aliens from the outer limits are getting paranoid. Maybe it’s all on account of some chemical the agribusinesses sprayed on the lettuce.

We just want to let you know, there’s something going on out there that only the big almond eyes of the paranoid aliens can see. For one thing, we want you to know that your tax dollars have been supporting the best wrecking contractors money can buy. Bang bang Shamballah!

Oh oh! There goes Hialeah, New Orleans, Mobile, Alabama, Biloxi, Tallahassee, and other cities of the Aztec Gulf flood plain. Gone, gone, gone with the dreams of the ancient Atlantis which was supposedly lost under the Atlantic Sea.

Good morning. This is Paranoid Alien Radio, waking you up so that you can realize, that the coyotes really are howling over the remains of what used to be Western Civilization. Hello. This is Paranoid Alien Radio, trying to tell you that if you do not find the Green Tree of Peace, the ecologically sustainable garden of grace & mercy, lots of people are going to find that they have had to surrender it all to the Revolution.

Encounter With the Fire Marshall

Encounter With the Fire Marshall

April 2, 1994

    Again, Regina and I are seated at her breakfast nook table, when the ghost of Soren Kirkegaard flies in from Denmark to join us.  He introduces himself as the Fire Marshall.

    “If we would be spiritual explorers,” declares Soren, “we must acknowledge that the karmic road is paved with gravel. And if we accept that we are the adopted brothers and sisters of the God Who Died on the Cross, then we must also accept that we shall have our turns to scream and groan when the slaves get flogged.  It’s only those who are too punch-drunk with pain to say no to God, who can win the good race, and gain admission to the House of Lords in Heaven.”

    “You are the one who were the bandit,” Regina critiques. “You were the one who frightened the Church and the State by proclaiming that you had been led to establish, not a new theology, but a division of natural science which would examine social parasites!”

    “I wished to lead the people of sincere devotion away from the decadent castles of Ludvig, so that they could build the kind of defenses which would be of some actual value in resisting the coming tide of bestiality,” the Fire-Marshal answers. “The masses of so-called Christians will not join me in this effort, because their leaders have too much regard for a fine purse. But when they recognize the nature of the plague which is encroaching, and which is carried by the amiable mediocrity of popular Christianity, the few who are healers shall appreciate my vision of the Vanishing Point. Quite simply, we must be able to look at everything from both unbelief and faith, so that we may develop a hyperbolic relationship to the True and Unattainable Ideal.

    “Once we have developed that sort of quiet and inward relationship, we shall be able to appreciate the potential oil wells that lie beneath so many avocado ranches and other small and independent farms. We also shall appreciate that certain resources must remain potential, until the rapacity of certain economic systems have been chastised. You see it every day, but you refuse to look. You say that God takes care of his own, but what happens when the smallholders try to hold back the developers’ bulldozers? Of course, their petit-romanticism is too small for the world, and therefore doomed for failure – but is the more efficient System of the Beast that drives it out, any sort of real improvement?”

 

Encounter with the Real Peoples' Grandfather

Behold another voice, whose visible image at the table appears as a scowling tribal face, a mask carved rather crudely out of a log:

      “Before you go on and on in your discussion of what is or is not appropriate for a Christian, I believe that I have a right to ask of you one little question. By a Christian do you mean a Lutheran or a Methodist – which is to say, one whose life is programmed by the ideological structions of the mercantile idealism of Europe? Or does being a “Believer” imply a relationship with the sense of Prophesy which you recognize in Jesus the Christ, but which so-called primitive peoples also see in the teachings of Medicine People like Deganiwidah or the White Buffalo Woman?”

      “Ho there!” chuckles the Fire Marshall. “I now see what it is I longed to seek through travel, but despaired of finding on account of the thorn in my flesh. That is not a little thing you ask of me. I know that our Western Civilization is going down, and that on this account the man of discretion is likely to be the solitary.”

      “But love lurks in the woods,” insists Regina. “Your world is knocked out of equilibrium, because the weight of large estates and big crimelord houses puts everything out of balance. You can’t have love while you are trying to shoot a gatling gun. It is only when you can begin to appreciate the inspiration in the flowing water, that love has a chance to survive.”

      “In order to become a people,” grins the crudely carved wooden mask, “you’ve got to develop traditions of courtesy, which are founded on the awareness of past inspirations. Or you can act like the Crude Oil Brothers, who are always bringing in their mercenaries to take all the valued resources away from the little brown men. It’s just like your domestic violence problem. Whether it’s gas and oil rights or the rights to favors in bed – your so-called Christians have shown the world that they are not to be trusted. Or at least, not until you have begun to let your women have a chance to civilize you.”

Spider-Woman and the Smoking Chimney

    “Look at the board on which the cruel game is played,” declares The Happy Hunting Ground’s attorney-general. “Look how the rules all have been re-written by the God of Jealousy. You turn everything in life into an all-out struggle, and then, to make sure no one else can win, you change the rules as you go. For this reason, we’re convicting Jealousy of High Treason. Has the Felon Angel anything to plead?”
    “I don’t think he has any answer,” witnesses the Fire Marshall, “because Felon Apollyon knows that anything he declares may be used by the prosecution. And, as the Fire Marshal, I have got to take the Prosecutor’s side. I have seen too many instances of arson, and all of the evidence seems to indicate that the Indo-European Gods have not only managed a hostile takeover of Christianity, but that they are using the resulting consortium as a pretext for burning and imprisoning women.”

    “Let us examine the scene of the crime from the perspective of the Back Door,” imparts the Crudely Notched Mask. “Then, I believe, you shall see how the Guardian of the Ice and the Oceans would look at what has been coming down ever since Europe’s so-called enlightenment. Ever since the end of the Dark Ages, we have noticed that more and more hot smoke has been rising up from Europe’s chimneys. At first, it was just blacksmiths building fires so they could manufacture swords and armor for the knights.
    “The kings in those days thought they owned it all. What they did not understand, as they looked out on their Large Estates from the Manor Houses and Castles they farmed out to their vassals, was that their conquest of the common people was only the first stage in a process of avalanching entropy. The kings will try to develop enough prosperity to satisfy the people, and hope to settle down to a 500 year long Elizabethan Age, where gentlemen from varied nations shall duel upon the Spanish Main.
    “The Spider-Woman who spun and wove this fine tapestry died, and was remembered for the next 500 years as a lady who got tired of torturing her boyfriends and became a little old maid. The next kings were to find that Elizabeth’s peace could not last 50 years, let alone 500. For one thing, there were now by far too many chimneys, through which more and more smoke was rising up to disfigure the ozone. Beyond that, the Royal Privateers were becoming Disloyal Rats, and financing their treasonous aims through the most dishonorable sorts of commerce. No Crusader at the walls of Jerusalem has ever smitten a Saracen with such venom, as the Masters of the European Chimneys now inflicted on Africa.
    “You-all have studied the Great Bourgeois Rebellions in High School. What your instructors neglected to mention, was that these rebellions were simply the turbulence that was being generated by more and more smoke that was going up more and more chimneys. About the same time that Kings and their loyal retainers started getting their heads chopped off, the chimneys began reaching a critical mass, and chimneys started building chimneys. It wasn’t just the armory blacksmith anymore – now any little hamlet with a mill had to have a chimney too, so that a boiler could be stoked till it produced live steam.
    “And now the boilers with their chimneys were starting to walk over the land and across the Great Waters. Wherever these walking chimneys would travel, stationary chimneys would rise up to service the traveling chimneys. We have arrived at the point at which the Chief Engineers will try to stop this proliferation of chimneys, and will find out that they cannot. They will try to spread the alarm that all of the chimneys built since 1980 are united in a Communist conspiracy, and that any new chimney must be licensed by an old chimney – but in the end they will fail. We, who are the Spirits on the Northern Mountains, could have informed them long ago, just what an avalanche is all about – but the Chief Engineers were always too proud to listen.”

The DownGoing of High Romance

April 1, 1994

     “I am beginning to suspect that you are one of those travelers,” Regina needles me, “who are so spiritually restless that they find themselves uncomfortable in any clime.”

     “I don’t want to live my life as a B-Grade movie,” I respond. “However, the B-Grade shoot-em-up Western seems to be about all that the Vespucci mentality is able to accept.”

     “Where would we be without their jazz rhythms?” Regina objects. “The Vespucci may have lost the ability to say anything worthwhile in a philosophical vein, but their music is really divine.”

     “That music,” I remark pointedly, “is something that has been developed by the Atlantaens who always get shot whenever the Vespucci begin firing their B-Grade Colt revolvers and Winchester rifles.”

     “I just like to listen to their rock and roll,” she says.

     “What used to be rock and roll has now become the music of hard drugs and hard time,” I find myself critiquing. “I find it rather hard to believe, that a society so wealthy should be so cold and callous towards its poor people and disenfranchised ethnic groups.”

     “Thank you for confirming my feeling,” she declares, as she allows me to kiss her hand. “What I am concluding is that the Vespucci are really afraid of their own shadowgraphs. The Western Man needs to sympathize with us, because he has allowed the woman to do all of the feeling, while he does all of the thinking and directing. But of course, naturally, feeling which goes beyond our capacity for assertive action must necessarily be tragic.

     “The historic Culture of the High Romance,” I find myself responding, “tried to build up a sense of courtesy and custom, which would bring a man and a woman to the point at which they experience each other as suffering souls, before they get so naked that they know exactly how to kill each other. Unfortunately, when the Vespucci popular culture decided to get rid of everything the Communists from the Maquis had tried to smuggle over, respect for the comradeship of women was the first thing that had to go.”

     “Lethality,” she agrees, trying hard to pronounce the word with a Boston accent. “That is the exactly the problem.”

     “When I examine the statistics on Domestic Violence among the Vespucci,” I reflect, “then I become thoroughly shocked. I know that I am one of the Children of the Wanderer – but even normal, conservative Muslims become shocked, when they see how the Frontier Lords of the Vespucci brand their women like animals and then ride them into the ground. Of course, under this sort of condition, you’ve got to convince the women that they really are free and equal. Women who acknowledged they were servants would keep something in reserve for themselves, and know better than to give themselves so completely to their masters.”

     “That is a rather extreme statement,” she shrugs uneasily.

     “I guess, when men let us develop a positive image from the shadowgraph,” she quickly recovers with a wicked smile, “they don’t like what they see.”

Must all Ishmael’s children suffer, because he cursed the rain?

Why the Aliens Are Paranoid

Why the Aliens Are Paranoid

March 30, 1994

Good Morning, to everyone staked out on the plain. This is Paranoid Alien Radio, broadcasting out of Roswell, New Mexico, where all the aliens are very paranoid.

     We who have been stationed here on a galactic peacekeeping mission would like to ask you if you have ever stood under the stars, while the moon is shining down on the Sangre de Cristo Mountains?

     If the moon is full and the stars are bright, you shall be able to hear Kit Carson howling in the night.

     If you will listen to his mournful howls, you shall hear him complain about how he was abused and cajoled and deceived by people who thought that they knew what was good for the country because they had West Point educations. He is howling because he is coming to realize, that the things that these generals and colonels ordered him to do, are things that would nowadays be filed under “G” for Genocide or “E” for Ethnic Cleansing.

     Kit Carson is lamenting the fact that he chopped down the peach orchards of his neighbors, simply because he was given orders by generals who felt that the Union was in danger and the Navajos were a threat. He is howling because he knows too well how often the Navajos had given aid and comfort to runaway slaves. He is howling because the people with big educations had him so hypnotized, they were able to trick him into acting in a way that made war with his conscience.

     Originally, having grown up in a contested settlement, Kit Carson had worn a chip on his shoulder where “Indians” were concerned. But the longer he served the U.S. Cavalry, the more he came to realize the slime that lay hidden beneath the macaroni. The more new settlers he led out here to New Mexico, the less encounters between the U.S. Cavalry and the Natives were conducted as contests of honor, and the more that it was beginning to look like plain old genocide.

     Kit Carson ended his life as an advocate for Indian rights, but his ghost will still howl in the night, because he wants to wake you up so that you do not need to spend your old age atoning for the sins of your youth. And Kit Carson will keep howling, until those who have come in the big ships across the ocean learn a proper respect for the little Native canoes being tossed about in the wake of the big ocean liners.

     We who are paranoid aliens are establishing a beachead on this planet, because your galactic neighborhood is tired of watching re-runs of the old Cowboys & Indians serials. We cannot allow you to begin colonizing Outer Space, because your rapes, acts of domestic violence, acts of vendetta, and wars which result from vendettas are bad examples. We who are Paranoid Aliens simply cannot afford to have other young races follow in the path you are leading.

     Incidentally, we who are Paranoid Aliens are not alone in this feeling. We have spoken with the elders of many traditional tribes. The elders are all in agreement, that the public fashions of your age are far too violent. There are some among the Pueblos who warn, that on account of the sins against the Tree of Peace, the White Snake soon shall take a flogging from the Black Snake which shall leave him writhing in pain. It is a pity, but if the fanatics did not rise up to oppose you, the White Snake would become so bold, that everything that is warm-blooded would be poisoned.

     “To be quite blunt, we see your planet positioned on the brink of a Global Civil War. We who hail from the planet which we call Iblees are of the opinion that it would be just as well, if we were allowed to encourage you to act out your aggression in a way that would bring mutual extermination, and the extinction of your ‘human species.’ Quite frankly, the Real Estate of your planet is too valuable to be wasted by being set aside as a nursery for an immature species that would just as soon exterminate itself in an orgy of mass violence.

The Hour of the Neighborhood Frog King

The Hour of the Neighborhood Frog-King

 

Where have all the flowers gone? What happened to all of the poppies?

    The answer is, the Roman soldiers trampled them when they were raising up the cross on which they nailed Adonoi.

    Hello, this is the Frog-King, broadcasting on Paranoid Alien Radio, to ask you now, where have the young girls gone? The answer is, that you are tuned in on a soap opera. There are no perfect lovers, only duets and triangles which demonstrate how thorny a soap-opera pretty rose can really be.

    Do we ask why Isis weeps? Look out on the Aegean Sea, and you shall see reflection of a dreadful moment.

    The Great God Pan is dead.

    Didn’t the same thing happen to the Runner of the Marathon? Was it not with his dying breath that he delivered his victory message to Athens?

    And don’t we all discover in the end, that each one of us has been running a marathon race, which we can only win by crossing over, and leaving this world behind?

    Hello Again. This is your friendly Neighborhood Frog-King from a not so distant star, broadcasting over Paranoid Alien Radio. Do you understand, why we have been brought here?

    I used to have a tail that was so fine it would shine in the darkness. In those days, I used to be a preacher. I’d put the people into a trance, and all the pretty women would lay out their fish-baskets in front of me, and ask me to jump into bed. But then I made a mistake, because I started telling them, that my green and gold tail was much prettier than anything that God had. That’s why the Angel of Judgement came for me. With one whack of Her double axe, she severed my tail from my spine.

    That’s why I became the bandit who rides through the Staked Plain, driven by the pain of his lost tail. I still will be fleeing the men that I’ve killed and searching for my lost Evangeline, even after the real-estate agents have drawn and quartered Santa Fé, and platted the suburbs of Taos.

    “I’ve always known that the Priest and the Satanist hve a dirty secret in common,” Renata declares, with a certain set of her jaw. “That’s why the time has come when both the Patriarchs and their familiars must step aside, so that the Corn- Mother may return in glory from the underworld into which the Myths of the Fathers have cast her.”

    “Then let us be joined, in our commitment to bring about that transmutation,” I declare.

    “I’ve got to keep my distance, because I am still shattered by the pain,” she complains, with hurt emotions. “I’ve got to hide my love for you, because I am afraid to take the risk of having any more accidents.”

    “You speak as though it were a sin to acknowledge the reality of class conflict,” I make my counter-complaint.

    “I’ve reached the limits of what I can do for the struggle,” she demands emphatically.

    The trouble is, not only have I heard these words before – I have been the one who uttered them.

The Brutal Birth of New Mexico

Alien Abduction

July 27, 1993

The burning of Zozobra, in the field outside the old Spanish fort that now is surrounded by modern Santa Fe, is still more than a month away. But certain events are conspiring to give us a feeling, the ceremony this year may not be entirely innocent.

We are told that this ceremony was first held in the Year of Our Lord 1712, by proclamation of the Spanish Marquis de Penuela, to celebrate a sort of “marriage” which had gone through a period of estrangement.

What the tour books fail to tell us, is that the marriage was a forced one. With help from her relatives and in-laws, the violated bride made a strong stand against the violent ways of her self-proclaimed husband, until economics and harassment by her self-seeking former allies forced the poor girl into a rather abject capitulation. Almost 300 years later she can still show you the scars that she got from her whipping that night.

About 148 years ago, the United States Congress decided to take it’s turn being the Whipper, and tied Mexico to a pole. Recognizing the need to fall in step and dance along to the Desperation Samba, the Mexican inhabitants of Old Santa Fe let General Kearny and his Army of the West take control.

After that came a little argument over who was going to chastise who, that commonly is called the Civil War. After the Southern White Man had to take off his shirt and get his dirty flogging, all sorts of desperadoes began to creep in from Dodge. This only aggravated the Apaches, who brought in Pancho Villa to play his version of the Desperation Samba in several New Mexican small towns.

World War I and the Model T Ford put an end to all of that. After World War I, everything became ruled by the assembly-line ethic – including the desperadoes. Hanging out on the street corners with a 6-gun became a sign that one had sold out to become a B-Grade actor.

The men who came home from witnessing the horror of Armageddon, began to get the idea that modern civilization was getting just a little bit too tame. Nostalgia opened the floodgates, and the cult of the old frontier came into vogue. Of course, the new wars between Cowboys and Indians would all be on film, and no one would shoot real bullets.

A World War I veteran with tuberculosis and mustard gas scars in his lungs came out to the West for his health. While he had been fighting in France, this William Howard Shuster, Jr., had cherished the desire to be an artist. He became successful in that field, but ended up being known chiefly for the creation and the burning of Zozobra.

Will Schuster burned his first Zozobra during an overgrown garden party in the summer of 1924. Apparently, this Zozobra was a secularized version of the Judas efigy the Yaqui Indians parade about on a donkey, before they burn him and blow up the firecrackers which have been sewn into his papier-mache body.

In other words, Old Man Gloom, the Snake-eyes throw of the dice, the Capsized Galleon, is the return to this world of an ancient Mexican God. The one the Yaqui Indians call Judas, may be in fact, none other than the Eater-of-Hearts who used to call the shots of Realpolitik from the steps of the old Aztec pyramids.

a = a

It’s a good old Kiwanis Club burning, that is already beginning to give its local color to the myth of the Santa-Fe Sasquatch, who has otherwise been known as the Jersey Devil.

One year, the Zozobra monster had to be anesthetized with 66 gallons of ether, so that he could be delivered to the proper place for his burning. But this year, it seems that Zozobra has been delivered to the wrong Ft. Marcy.

His head is lying, more or less lined up with the mouth of one of the canons which were set there to defend the United States Capitol in Washington DC. We might not think it too strange to see an Arkansas lawyer lying dead in front of a Civil War canon – except for a small time discrepancy of 130 years.

There also are certain other discontinuities, which suggest that we are on the boundary of a space-time singularity. None of the established news agencies, not even the paranoid bloggers, are able to explain how Vincent Foster exited the White House on the afternoon of July 20, without the event being registered by even one of several security and monitoring systems that have been installed to protect the President of the United States.

Falls one star deep abased

From Heaven where she scintellates.

This is the Star of Love,

To whom my heart capitulates. (Heine)

The star falls into an autumn lake. Within that lake, a swan swims to and fro. Tomorrow that swan shall be dead. Late autumn leaves shall swirl upon the icy waters that do not remember.

Back in Arkansas, Vince Foster got the reputation of being one of America’s best lawyers. Unfortunately, he hasn’t been able to balance the books. The problem which has kept Mr Clinton’s Blind Trust in limbo, 6 months now after the deadline, has to do with a contribution to the Clinton campaign by a spook who was most likely an agent of the Starlords.

Domestic violence advocates will remind us, that the most dangerous moment in an abusive relationship is the moment when the victim tries to leave. But leave what? What is the price of initiation into the Cult of Power? And what if someone could not go any further with the President, because he was unwilling to keep quiet about the human sacrifices which were being committed, just so the old Mexican God our museums call Tezcatlipoca could keep the mirror dark and smoking, and the retail operation in control?

Now if we go back to Arkansas, we shall find that there was a time when Tezcatlipoca called himself The Vulture. This Vulture walked the Mississippi valley, so that he could accept the tithes and offerings and human sacrifices of the priests of a religion anthropologists now call The Southern Death Cult. Of course as we know, the whole rationale for human sacrifices is the notion that we’ve got to give up something to the Aliens, in return for the privilege of being left alone.ⁱ

When journalists began gathering evidence that Tezcatlipoca’s nephew was using the War on Drugs to develop his own retail outlets for guns and drugs, the CIA responded a la Louis Napoleon. Threaten the liberals with lawsuits which cannot be won, since all the evidence is classified. But what about the government of Colombia, which is making the same accusations?

“Here ruining people is considered sport.”

Those ripped up fragments of paper may be a suicide note – and then again, they might not be. Isn’t there a disturbing similarity between the itemized list of apologies and denials, and the somewhat disconnected answers that might have been given in response to a military interrogator? But if so, who was the interrogator?

Who else, save the Left-Handed Hummingbird, makes us rip out each other’s hearts and poison the lives of those we hold most dear?

“Here ruining people is considered sport.” Printed in extra-bold type, Vincent Foster’s bitter cry might well serve as the leitmotif of the decade of the 1990's.

Vincent Foster’s last recorded moments involved the inauguration of the new FBI director, Louis Freesh. Evidently, Huitzilopochtli himself came down from his secret pyramid, to demand that this occasion be consecrated by the human sacrifice of a tanist. The aliens who enforce our service to Huitzilopochtli teleported Mr. Foster to what they thought was the proper Ft. Marcy. That’s why he was found just in front of a canon, with a 38-calibre bullet in his head, but no significant bloodstains on the right-hand cuff of his shirt.¹

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1This happened July 20. His last known wherabouts was at the innauguation of the new FBI director Louis Freesh. He checked in with White House security, but is not recorded to have ever checked out. Clinton’s “Blind Trust,” on which Foster was working was 6 months late, probably because Foster was unwilling to sign his name to fraudulent declarations intended to launder significant contributions to Clinton campaign from the CIA’s gun & drug retail outlet.

              Like Vince Foster, the movement which was seeking to bring everyone some kind of affordable health coverage got tangled in red tape and abused by interests who were intent on destroying other peoples lives, until their own vests are lined with silver and their pockets are filled with gold.

Alien Abduction

Alien Abduction

• Heavy, heavy, the soul hangs over the head. What Shall the Redeemer do to own it?
• Can the Soul Restore itself?
• Are all things beautiful when they achieve completion in their Final Cause?