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Victims of the Corsican Method

Victims of the Corsican Method

June 26, 2008

Of course, as we have always understood, the Last Judgement is little more than a fairy tale. The way that the preachers depict it, it hardly could be interpreted as anything else.

But we were never promised sound effects and panoramic light shows. What we were promised was that Justice would be made manifest, and that as the Abusers were made to atone for the disorders they had created, the Earth would be renewed.

Cosmic Initiation

There is one more detail Michelangelo left out of the picture. As far as we can look back into history, the Rational Soul of the Earth has been immature. We really are only beginning to take any interest in looking beyond ourselves. The morality tales recounted in our old religious texts are childish, because the people to whom they first told were in a childish state.




But no matter how tenaciously we try to hold on to our childhood, the time must come, when we must put aside our childish me-first-ism so that we can become citizens within a functional republic.


Perhaps the same is true for the inhabitants of planets. Reason informs us that many other planets in the universe must have developed intelligent life. In the past this has been obscured by the fact that space and time bend around a gravitational object the size of a solar system, in such a way that all animal life is effectively fenced in.


An age must come when the rational souls inhabiting a primitive planet must go beyond being fenced in by our animal consciousness. As we come to accept that Humanity is an Intelligence, we also must come to accept that there are other Intelligences out there, with whom we shall need to learn how to reason. This does not mean that interstellar commerce shall commence at any time soon. The Collective Intelligence of this Star of Suffering is only beginning to study the laws of civics that can only be taught through participation in republican government. Because we have been tardy in learning these lessons, we are spiritually sick and in quarantine.

The Downgoing of Western Civilization

Society:

A State of Collective Sin.

We are all part of the plot.

The downgoing of a civilization is part of an inevitable cycle. At this juncture Faith, if she is to lead humanity forth from the point at which the latest version of Babylon has dumped her, must rigorously examine all of the core assumptions of the old system.


The fundamental characteristic which has been observed in all of the Babylons which have dominated the ages of Ares and Pisces, is that they have dismembered humanity. The Babylonian Order is based on the Corsican Method of classifying mankind and then discriminating according to these classes. So long as mankind is driven by leaders who follow the Corsican Method, it shall be only the few who dare everything for spiritual vision, who can afford to develop empathy for the whole of Humanity.

Quarantined, on the Star of Suffering

The Native healer will warn you about the spiritual disease which prevails on this Star of Suffering. On the one hand we have ascetics in the caves, who are trying to numb themselves by shocking their physical bodies through various privations. Their rather ineffectual piety is balanced by the ruthlessness of a class of spoiled tyrants. Once in awhile, the ascetics are able to needle the tyrants into rising from their slumber of depravity, to accomplish moments of greatness.



These Spoiled Tyrants usually take credit for the technical accomplishments of their particular Babylon, but this is outright intellectual theft. The progress in arts and sciences which is made possible in the pre-Classical days of a Babylon, is due to both the labors and the reflections of a class of skilled workmen.


All this is well and good, so long as the elite retain their ability to act as though they were Gods. Unfortunately, when they find that they must make themselves accountable to a Republic, they begin to challenge the philosophies of the guilds, by imposing time-factored demands for production that reward one-upmanship and punish the natural tendency of workers toward collaboration. It is in this way that labor and technical expertise are divided from philosophy. In partial compensation for the philosophy from which they have been alienated, these laborers and technical experts are given religions which praise them for bearing the heavy yoke of compensating for the sins of their aristocratic masters.

All of this classification results in a colossus which would be crippled if it were not sustained by two “inferior” classes: those who must labor in the fields, and those who must labor in the bedroom so that the masters may take pleasure, and the master-race may be sustained. These are the two legs on which Babylon walks – what Arnold Toynbee once referred to as the “External” and “Internal” Proletariats.

Eventually, both the women and the undocumented aliens begin to get wise to the swindle. They know that their tears are not felt by the Masters of Babylon, because the Master-Race does not believe that either women or barbarians have souls. So, just to prove that they do have souls, the women and the barbarians begin to conspire to bring back the God or Goddess of Justice from the World of Inferior Things.

“How Long My Lord, How Long?” the women in the catacombs begin singing. The sky responds with lightning which threatens the Emperor of the Celestial Kingdom, as the External Proletariat responds in refrain from the fields:

“Paint your door and take refuge in Zion!”

Imprisoned In Broca's Brain

This division of the body politic was mirrored in the virtual division of the body. The philosophy of Babylon valued the head as gold and the heart as silver. The flesh of the rest of the body was considered to have been cast from baser metals. It was only after a man had extinguished all of his carnal feelings, that he could dare to contemplate The One, where every little consciousness is rooted in the Atman.

Paradoxically, this over-valuation of “The Head” locked consciousness up in one particular part of the brain – Broca’s Brain, the site of our neurolinguistic processing. This led men to ignoring the essential importance of the Central Processing Unit – the Hippocampus, which has the power to make decisions by shifting between different frequencies of input. Thus the significance of Socratic philosophy, which reminds us that we must develop a guardian-mind that is capable of making uncomfortable ethical decisions, if we are to have the kind of thought that can keep a republic alive.


So long as we divide mankind into categories of citizens, slaves, and enemies, the ghosts of those victims whom our social enterprises have killed shall not have access to the ivory tower where Conscience, beautiful but chained, languishes as she waits for the next rape. It is her shame, but some of those rapes have caused her to give birth to the monstrous creatures who threaten the travelers and peasants on the plains down below.


We can ask where Love has gone, but until we listen to the complaints of Conscience, we shall never know. Just what has happened to the children of the single mother who had to go on welfare, because her business was shut down for legal technicalities? These children also ask where love has gone, and no one gives them any satisfactory answer.



Amelia and The White Whale

Amelia & The

White Whale

Photo from Wikipedia Commons

Apr. 7, 2006

Grandmother has been down there, under the Pacific Ocean for too long. She was last seen taking off in her Lockheed Electra from the colonial era airport in Lae, New Guinea. It was 10:00 in the morning in the South Pacific, but midnight at the Greenwich Meridian.

Over the Blue Pacific

“My children, let me tell you a story,” smiles Grandmother, with a mischievous gleam in her eye. "We have all dreamed of being Amelia Earhart, having our own airplanes, flying into France and sending regards by telegraph to our husbands. We have all wanted to feel we had only the sky for a limit. But then look at the woman who carried our dreams, and see where that dream led her.

“We're flying across the Pacific, looking down to the south on the Australian coral reef. Unfortunately, these savage reefs demarcate the end of friendly territory. To the north and east lie the Philippines; well on the way to North America lie the Hawaiian Isles. Ahead lie the Solomon Islands, under the Japanese flag¹¹.

“It was at this point, the world lost track of Mrs. Amelia Earhart Putnam. During the star-dying time, just before dawn July 2, the Coast Guard Cutter Itasca picked up her radio signals. There were apparently, problems in the radio and navigational equipment. It appears that she was transmitting, but that she was unable to receive with sufficient clarity to distinguish words from static. And so, at about 10:00 AM local time on July 2, 1937, if she had crossed the International Date Line, and July 3 if she had not, Amelia Earhart disappeared from history, flew into the World of Uncertainty, and entered the Domain of Mythology.

“Forever, my children, shall strange tales be told. Amelia Earhart was carrying the dreams of all the women of the world – so perhaps it would have been anticlimactic if her round the world tour had ended successfully with a safe landing in California.

“Although her navigator was using directional finding radio, Amelia loved to navigate by the stars. As she and Fred Noonan flew across the broad Pacific through the afternoon and into the night, she may have noticed that the constellations had become marvelous and strange.

Radio signals believed to have come from her airplane were reported for 4 or 5 days. Some of these signals were identified as coming from Gardner Island in the Phoenix Archipeligo. But even after the most expensive search and rescue operation that had been launched to date, involving the United States navy, the private efforts of her wealthy husband, and even two Japanese warships, no trace of either Ms. Earhart or her navigator were ever discovered.

The Quantum World of Frational Probability

“Like the peace the world longed for but could not keep, she simply disappeared from space-time. But it wasn’t as though she stopped existing. Amelia Earhart had entered the realm of mythology, and was subsequently seen in at least 100 different places.

One Amelia Earhart had been an American spy with a personal commission from FDR. She had been captured by the Japanese, and forced to broadcast propaganda over the radio as Tokyo Rose. Another Amelia Earhart had refused to cooperate – certain inhabitants on the Marshall Islands saw a Japanese platoon shoot her. It’s possible that more than one Amelia Earhart died in this way – but the general opinion of the authorities seems to be that these testimonials really amount to cargo cult rituals, and that their private intent is to convince Grandma to bless the particular island with gifts of American money.”

Grandmother smiles at us with a particular gleam in her eye, which makes it apparent that she enjoys the incense and the roast pigs that are offered to her by Melanesian islanders who are participating in cargo cult rituals.

“In any case,” Grandmother continues at length, “after the Japanese signed their treaty of unconditional surrender on the Battleship Missouri, George Putnam and several other investigators conducted an extensive examination of Japanese military documents, but no mention was ever found of either a spy or a prisoner who might have been Ms. Earhart.²

“It’s also possible that she and Fred Noonan may have survived for as long as 2 or 3 years on Gardner Island. There are curious implements that have been discovered on an island that was then uninhabited. The only theory that hasn’t yet been aired is that she and Fred were captured and hauled off into Deep Space by the Grey Aliens – but I suspect a detailed explanation on how that happened shall soon be posted on the Internet.

And so, if we want to find Amelia Earhart today, we’ve got to realize that she is alive and well in the Land of Mythology.”

a=a

Encounter With John From

Which version of the Archetype do we want to pursue? The search for Amelia Earhart still continues; more and more money is poured into the quest for some genuine relic every year. These extensive searches produce just enough in the way of results to tease, but not enough to allow us to draw any solid conclusions.

The gentleman named John From is sitting in front of a tropical hut – brown skinned, nearly naked, and smoking a big cigar. He seems to be mildly amused by the folks who have come to dig for artifacts and bones.

“I cannot tell you what happened to her bones. Do you know where Moses is buried? If you want to get in touch with her spirit we can help you. But then – since you have obviously come here with money, if you want us to share the wisdom which is our wealth, you must share a little bit of your money with the people of the islands.”

As he speaks, a parade of women in grass skirts comes by, followed by men who are pounding on drums and a singer who chants in New Zealand English:

"Let us have done with the White Man's God --

(Harrum. Are we going to harmonize? Let's hear it.)

Hummm: Let us have done, have done with the White Man's God

For He is a mechanical insect

Flying in the sky just ten feet overhead:

Let us have done. Let us have done. And we

Are done with the Japanese and Korean and Taiwanese God-squads too.

̧  ̧

Where Have the Stars Hidden?

“Where then have the stars hidden?” asks John From. “And where shall we find the rose?"

Casual reflection #5.

When unleashed paranoias gird on the sword for mighty conquest -- where have the stars hidden? Gone with the Maid of the Sun and Moon, who cowers from the lust of a dragon. Red dragon or White, Communist or Right Wing -- he may take any name, so long as it serves his intention of burning the witch. We know him well, who've read the scroll that was smuggled from the concentration camp on Patmos.

He may be an angel of light -- or even your friendly neighborhood psychiatrist. No problem, so long as you swear to serve Oedipus Tyrannis, and his God of Scarcity.. But if you are one of those dreadful Presbyterians, tarring and feathering the torries, the friendly neighborhood psychiatrist can go you one better. It seems he's got the Lightning on his side.

Well, nowadays there's a nasty little African kid who’s got a choke-hold on the psychiatric profession. Says that his name is Chango, and that he's the owner of all of the lightning on earth. Says that when the psychiatrist's buddy, Mr. Neurosurgeon, used that lightning to burn peoples' brains, that he was acting in contempt of the Nuremberg Court. Says that he has heard the cry of the sunken Atlantaen women, from Buenos Aires all the way north to Montreal. They're all demanding that Mr. Psychiatrist take some courses on ethics from Madame Erzulae, the Haitian Venus.

So Mr. Psychiatrist finds himself taking a trip down to Haiti, where he shall see the Arawak spirits flying through the trees. He shall tremble to hear all these Arawak spirits cry out:

You need not keep shocking the Zombie! You burned out his briain already!

Then:

Mr. Psychiatrist looks on Madame Er­zulae, dressed only in a skirt of green palm leaves, with cowries round her neck and nut-brown breasts looking like sea animals sacred to the Gods. All of his good white-supremacist conditioning can't keep Mr. Neurosurgeon from lusting for this creature. But she just stands there, contemplates him with a scowl, lights up a fat cigar and blows smoke in his face, saying:

"I heard you calling me a witch-doctor, but you know something, Mr? I am going to call you Mr. Mountebank, cause I can see right through you. You just won't listen to what any other culture has to say, excepting your own."

As we have observed, Madame Erzulae has a black eye. And listen: now she is explaining to the good doctor just how she acquired that black eye:

"So many of my ladies have been lost in action. They have died for the sake of the struggle to bring just a little of the Motherland into existence here on earth. Most men have treated them basely, save for a few who were shot down when they joined my ladies in flying after those distant stars."

1 ¹

Miss Earhart and Fred Noonan had taken off from Miami, Fla. on June 1, 1937. On July 2, an SOS reached the Coast Guard Cutter Itaska, waiting off the coast of Howland Island. "On July 7, 1937, just five days after Amelia Earhart was scheduled to arrive at Howland Island, Japanese and Chinese troops exchanged fire at the Marco Polo Bridge southwest of Peking. A truce was attempted, but the encounter escalated into a Japanese counterattack. --p. 119, Loomis, Vincent V., Amelia Earhart, the Final Story. New York, Random House, 1985

2

  Wehave heard other stories. As rumor goes, a plane with her identification number was found at the end of the Melanesian Nightmare, and burned on orders given by the American high command. A grim enough reminder how the serene Pacific was politically divided. Perhaps indeed, she may have been caught up in the strange paranoias of men who dreamed only of conquest, and was taken for a spy simply because she refused to be the agent of anyone’s political program.

A Window in Need of Repair

A Window In Need of Repair

Jiang Qing -- 

By unidentified photographer [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

A Window in Need of Repair

Dec 4, 2004

The window casement needs to be restored. The window itself has been shattered by a cruel stone.

My force has been spent. Isis has forgiven me for wounding her cheek. I fall down at her feet. What more can a stone do?

As I feel the warmth of The Mother Who Has Forgiven, I realize that everything is different in here. A stereo phonograph is playing, “Let’s Do the Twist Like We Did Last Summer,” and the Houris and Heroes are dancing.

Outside the broken window, everything is in commotion. It’s not just the tanks in the streets.

The angry ghosts that float by, looking like mouths full of sharp teeth with hardly any bodies at all, are denouncing an alleged conspiracy between Nixon and Kissinger, and the Communist Party Chairman who wrote the Little Red Book.

a

Back in the Material World

When I look back into the material world, I can observe that my own body is trying to get some sleep. But Thieu is complaining that her cheek has been wounded, and she is demanding some answers.

I can’t give her the answers she needs, because I wasn’t there. When I look out the window, I can see that there is a cactus with very sharp spines outside the bedroom window. But the spines are not nearly so sharp as the questions that are being asked by the ghosts who have flown in from the Poison Tree.

They are asking, who buried that sheath of faggots bound with an axe, in the courtyard of the schoolyard where they died. Was it the French Foreign Legion? Was it the Catholic Church? Was it something the Samurai forgot to take with them when they went back to their homes in Japan? What is this tree that grew up from the seed, that grows hatchets and vials of poison in place of edible fruits?

a

Fleeing to the Archetypal Place

Thieu is leading me down to an archetypal place. Guided by only the moonlight, we skirt about under the cliff where the Sphinx crouches like some cruel interrogator.

As we continue, we encounter Isis. Thieu asks her why her cheek has been bruised by a stone. I see the bloody bruise on her cheekbone, and realize that I have made a rather ugly impression.

“It all has to do with a jealous little Godling named Set,” declares Isi s. “He has been trying to get me stoned to punish me for an alleged act of adultery.”

“Don’t worry about the paint remover,” the Sphinx calls down from her cliff. “I know that the Men of the World shall do everything they can to restore the glamour of the Jealous God’s monument. . Everything, that is, except to make meaningful reparations to those whom their controlling ways have wounded. And so, since the foundations are crumbling, I am going to let the tower fall.”

a

Voices on the Lawn

Thieu and I are hearing voices out there on the lawn. A furious argument has broken out between a man and a woman. The howling is becoming a violent fight. The spirits who are angry at the way that they died at Tuol Sleng have pulled down the curtains, so that we can no longer see the angels who are singing the Song of the Spheres.

The man and woman are chasing each other around the saguaro cactus that stands guard over the corner of the lawn.

“Don’t get involved,” advises Thieu. “They might be dangerous people.”

The angry spirits, who still burn in shame over the way that carnal agony seduced them into betraying those whom they held most dear, roll back the turf from the lawn. The man and the woman both look down in shock, because the bright light that is shining from below has clearly been generated by Hellfire.

Down there, Richard Nixon, Chairman Mao, Chou en Lai, Pol Pot, and various other figures whose features are obscured by the shadows, are being summoned to something that certainly looks like the Court of the Last Judgement. In the background we hear a discussion about why Henry Kissinger is taking so long to respond to the summons that was delivered to him.

Except for Henry, who is still pleading diplomatic immunity, these souls are in the custody of devils in uniform, who have them all handcuffed together. The Sphinx, who is enthroned in the Judgement Seat, is taking depositions from Tibetan monks who were tortured. The painters are scraping off the paint remover from the walls, and all the scenes of horror the great leaders had hoped would be forgotten forever are coming back to life.

We see the cities burning. We see the napalm falling on the peasant, and on the water buffalo. We watch the Bouncing Betties rise up from under the soil like horrible apparitions to blow off the feet of the children. We watch the crocodile swimming in the big rain-filled crater that the B-52’s have made.

“You must learn how to be able to speak about the pain,” I find myself consoling Thieu. “It’s obvious, these ghosties will not stop tormenting the people of the earth, until they have been given voices with which they can scream.”

a = a

The Pregnancy of Chairman Mao

“These horrors shall be repeated, until they are remembered, and their significance has been assimilated,” declares an intellectual in glasses, who died of torture when Phnom Penh was purged.

“We shall never be able to give a form and a voice to the Theater of Cruelty, unless we are able to sustain each others’ spirits with a little bit of carnal tenderness,” declares Thieu, with a sad little sigh.

I feel a pang so acute that all that I can do is to kiss her tittie. General George Armstrong Custer gallops up from the hole in the ground, to arrest both the man and the woman for creating a domestic violence incident.

Custer empties his Colt revolver into the sky, as a police car arrives to haul off the victims.

“It’s hard to give birth to a Revolution,” declares Chairman Mao. “That’s why I became too heavy to be sent to Hell.”

“Like everything else that you have ever said, that is an out and out lie,” declares a tortured Tibetan monk. “Your waistline attained it’s legendary size, because you were caught eating everyone else’s dinner.”

“And people thought I was the Lord of the Shadow,” declares Adolph Hitler, with a frown.

“Don’t worry, my son,” Custer comforts him. “People will still remember you as the Father of Genocide.”

a = a

“Mao Turned Me Into a Bad Dog”

The man who is chasing the woman about the Saguaro cactus has become a fat Chinaman, who wears a Red Star on a uniformed hat. The woman also has Chinese features, but her body is much more graceful.

“You turned me into your bad dog,” Jiang Qing accuses the fat Chinaman. “I wanted to change the national culture by transforming our relation to the arts, but you were an old pervert who just wanted blood. Every time I had just about gotten all of the stage props in place, you would say, ‘go sic ‘em bitch!’ and I would need to bite someone. But I put up with it, because I believed that you were the world’s greatest revolutionary hero.

“All of this I could put up with, until I noticed all the young girls you were going to bed with in your old age. College girls I could understand; I would be jealous, but then I would think, that perhaps it was good for them to learn revolutionary theory from the Grand Master. But you had a thing about virgins! It wasn’t until I found myself alone in bed, wondering why it always had to be a virgin, that I began to realize just what you were, and what you had always been. You never really listened to anyone who had enough education to give you a proper critique of your theories. You think it is only a little thing, but it was the principal reason why we had to bury so many Red Chinamen in so many shallow graves.”

GGYYgg

When the Church Declared War on Mexico

Morning, Nov 18, 2004

Paranoid Alien Radio

Hello out there in Virginia Wolfeland. It is now 10:00 on the morning of November 18, and there is snow on the lower elevations of the Sangre de Cristo mountains. This is the Back to the Briar Patch Hour. Our mission is to challenge you to step out of the comfort zone of aesthetic materialism, by introducing you to little tidbits of Briar Patch history that shall make your blood run cold.

What
shall happen when we wake up and realize that the Inquisition is still live and well? What shall happen when we wander through the backyards of this desert town, searching for the cars & pickup trucks which have been stolen and vandalized? What shall happen when we come across people who act as though the little brown aliens who pick the lettuce in the fields were the most dangerous creatures in the country?

Shaking
Down the Leprechaun

There

is a Grand Lodge in Americaⁱ which was once descended from distinguished freemasons, but which now has been distanced by the Elect, on account of its longstanding quarrels with the Prince Hall Society, which is composed of Black Americans and which is a Masonic Rite in good standing. Down Mexico Way the distinction between the Freemasons and the Falsemasons is just as sharp as Pancho Villa’s machette. These Falsemasons also call themselves Illuminatti, on account of their exertions towards the restoration of a Solar Monarchy.

Let us ride now with the members of this Grand Confederate Lodge, as they search for little brown aliens who may be hiding in the abandoned shacks and dilapidated farmhouses of Chavez County.

The police are now questioning a man whom the members of the Grand Confederate Lodge have identified as one of these Aliens. He still has spines in his fingers from trying to eat cactus plants.
Apparently he got so hungry or so thirsty when he was making his way through the Sonora Desert that he was reduced to trying to eat them, and was trying to hold the cacti in his naked hands while he tried to peel the spines off with a knife.

We
would like to ask this Alien, just what was so wrong with his country, that he was trying to sneak into this one through the Back Door? He cannot give us a satisfactory answer, because his English is so bad that after ‘hello’ and ‘how are you’ he just starts shaking his head.

The
officers don’t pay too much attention to the Virgin of Guadalupe which is tattooed on his back, from the neck to a place that is so low it is almost obscene. How many poor Mexicans don’t have tattoos? And of course, since the Virgin of Guadalupe rolls the photo of your mother and your girlfriend up into a little cigarette that has been blessed by the Holy Water of the Church, she is a rather popular tattoo. But the Gentlemen from the Grand Confederate Lodge know that there is a growing correlation between these tattoos of The Virgin and those gangs that are transporting heroin tar and crack cocaine from crime labs in the suburbs of cities like Gaudalajara, to distribution centers in the suburbs of the entertainment capitals of the American Southwest. The Gentlemen from the Grand Confederate Lodge know all about this trade, and they don’t tell the cops nothing, because they want to remain in full control.

So
the wetback has got to convince the Gentlemen from the Grand Confederate Lodge that he is indeed, the most sincere of Cristeros.
The cops just don’t get why the wetback makes such a show of his genuflections, makes such a point of claiming that the bishop and the Pope are his personal friends. Of course, the cops do recognize that the bishop is the friend of every wetback in the country, and that the priests are notorious for the demonstrations they make on behalf of the not-so-law-abiding Catholics who are supposed to stay South of
the Border.

The
Hidden Hand, and the Invisible Strings

It is easy
 to say that the cop is not doing his job. Of course, nobody sees the invisible strings – and that is exactly the point. The cop is not supposed to see the way in which the same Cristeros who are combating Freemasonry and Atheism by selling drugs to the grandchildren of the Prince Hall Society of Los Angeles, are also enabling the transport of guns to the various Associations of Benevolent Bonapartists and Falangists who are keeping the masses down, South of the Border in Latin America.

It would be easier
for the poor cops to figure things out, if they had a rudimentary understanding of Mexican history. Unfortunately, cops usually spent their high school days being jocks, jocks who saw their own manifest destinies jumping about in the skimpy outfits of the cheerleaders. So the cop still thinks that “manifest destiny” is what happens when a jock and a cheerleader start “necking” in the back seat of Dad’s car. Where Mexico is concerned, about the only thing that our cop remembers is that his childhood hero Davy Crockett got shot at the Alamo.

But even if our future policeman had been a star student,
would he really have gotten the kind of answers the DA has got to have before he is ready to prosecute a case? For instance, look at this 1875 engraving  in Harpers’ Weekly. That is Andrew Jackson, dressed not as a president but as a general. Look at his left hand – where is it?
Hidden under the flap of the light military jacket he is wearing under his greatcoat. This, for those who were too busy chasing either cheerleaders or jocks to remember much from your high school history course, was the famous “Hidden Hand” gesture that was the personal trademark of Napoleon Bonaparte.

General Andrew Jackson
– the same general who, with the help of gentlemen from the French Quarter, chased the British out of New Orleans. There are other reasons for believing that this King Andrew envisioned himself as the founder of a Solar Dynasty, the capital of which would be founded on the very ground which he had seized from the descendants of the bodyguard of the original Sun-King of the Natchez, who had brought the crown with him when he had moved south to get away from the migrating barbarians, sometime in the early 14^th Century.

Yes, there are plenty of reasons
 for believing that this old Solar Monarch, Great Crocodile of Memphis, who probably sent Davy Crockett on what was intended to be a suicide mission to Texas, may still have more than a little to do with the drug trade which is destabilizing the Mexico of today.

So let’s fast-forward
past the overt Bonapartism of Aaron Burr, and the episode of William Walker selling shares in the Meso-American Empire his mercenaries were intending to conquer for the nation of “Sonora.” However relevant these episodes may be to the history of the Southern Death Cult in Dallas, we’re trying to arrive in the court of Napoleon III, Emperor of Paris, before the representatives of a credible association of Mexican Ranchers walk in.

Well, we almost got there in time – see, they are walking out, with Prince Maximilian in tow. These Bonapartist ranchers have bought themselves a Sun King descended from the Emperor to whom Cortez had pledged fealty.

Prince
Maximillian: La Entrada Segunda

Prince Maximilian
 himself does not realize that he has been selected as the lead actor in a Mexican tragedy. Only those who have made a study of the Southern Death Cult will recognize the significance of the fact, that the Mexican banking crisis, which Maximilian’s regime was intended to resolve in favor of the European interests, also coincided with the American Civil War. The leaders of the rebellious Southern states felt a strong affinity with the aristocratic republicanism of the Second Empire, and the Confederacy was in desperate need of relief from the Union blockade.

The French Foreign Legion
entered Mexico and made a legend for themselves by fighting to the last man at Hacienda Camaron. The Confederate camilia began to wither, and, by the summer of 1866, the ardor of the French had also faded. French Imperialism had found a new game to play in Indo-China, and the Mexican people had proven that they could cause trouble. The Union Army had won the Civil War, and surplus military equipment was beginning to slip across the border, to arm the Federales of Juarez.

What
then would become of the proud Mexican hidalgos who had deluded Maximilian into trying to trying to conquer their country back for them? What would become of the subjects of Austria and Germany, whom Maximilian had convinced to emmigrate to Mexico?

Having
sailed in from the sea like a blond-haired God, Maximilian was sacrificed to the Gods in 1867. Most of the German tradesmen learned Spanish and assimilated into Mexican society; one of them became the father of the revolutionary artist Frieda Khalo. A few of the descendants of the Hidalgos successfully assimilated into the Masonic Republic which had sacrificed the Sun-King for the benefit of the People. But even after the triumph of Juarez, most of these Hidalgos, like their Confederate counterparts in the North, still retained enough land and enough community privilege, that they could afford to entrench themselves behind the banners of romanticism, and bide their time.

Pancho
Villa knew they would be trouble, so where he had the power, he did his best to kill enough of these “Spaniards” that the rest of them would pick up and leave the northern provinces of Mexico. In the process, he gave Dallas, Texas the ideological core that would generate the State Department of the Eisenhower era. Many of the hidalgos that Villa chased out of Mexico became successful godfathers in the Great Cities of Vice like Havana, Cuba or Miami, Florida.

Pancho
Villa had mastered the art of looking and acting just like a dumb Indian who only wanted to do to the Spaniards the things they had done to the Indians – but Villa had a deeper reason for wanting to kick these Grand Illuminatti out of Mexico.

The
Church Provokes a War

The
Freemasons leading the Mexican Revolution had a vision for Mexico that was not anti-Christian but was, in a very real sense, post-Christian. The most charismatic leader of this Fremasonic Revolution, Plutarco Elias Calles, literally told the priests to ring the bells no longer.

• Photo By Aurelio Escobar Castellanos (Aurelio Escobar Castellanos Archive) [CC-BY-2.5 (www.creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.5)], via Wikimedia Commons

The Freemasons 
valued their Christian heritage, but they valued that heritage in context. Mexico was a particularly revealing context, because everywhere in Mexico, the ruins of a pre-Christian context which was ruthlessly crushed by Christianity, still rise up to startle the tourist with stylized idols that satirize everything in Heaven as well as on Earth. The gentlemen of the society that had been founded to combat the Inquisition also knew, that if 20^th Century Mexican culture were to revive the repressed dialogue between the Actual Present and the long-repressed Gods who still had their roots in the soil, it would be necessary to exorcize the stranglehold which a Church which now had converted to Bonapartism had been accustomed to exerting over every aspect of the Mexican culture.

Freemasonry
admittedly intended to reduce the Church from absolute to relative power, and to replace the decadent feudalism of the Old Regime with a semi-socialized system of land husbandry in which the peasants’ cooperatives would have a real power to bargain with the landlords. Unfortunately, the children of the hidalgoes Pancho Villa had driven out had now become partners and managers in the fruit companies and crude oil consortiums which were acting as though they were the mechanized extensions of an undead Second Empire. Like so many Third-World countries, Mexico has found itself pushed into socialism, because the national capitalists are in need of support from the laborers and the peasants, if they are ever to differentiate themselves as national citizens, from the Napoleonic forces of world capitalism, which strive everywhere to push Third-World countries back into feudal suppression.

Ever
since 1917, the Illuminatti who want to bring back the Sun King of the Second Empire have had a new battle cry. Whenever the citizens of some impoverished nation have been moved by collective sympathy to place limits on agricultural or industrial exploitation, the cry has gone out that the particular nation is falling for Communist subversion, and that intervention is needed.

And
so it seems that in the 1920's, at the same time the oil companies which pledge a secret allegiance to this very undead Second Empire were having their problems with the Mexican government, the Bonapartist bishops were raising up a Christian infantada which would harass the government of Plutarco Elias Calles, with tactics which give us a sense of deja vu when we compare them with those that are being used by the Taliban to destabilize Pakistan. These Cristeros, as the Christian Terrorists called themselves, cut off the ears of public school teachers – and sometimes went further than that.

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The
cop sees a brief exchange of money between the gentleman from the Grand Confederate Order and the Campesino with the Virgin tattooed on his back – but the exchange is so brief, he can’t be sure just which way the money is going. He tries to make sense of the transaction, and fails to realize that this particular exhibition of slight-of-hand is intended to divert him from inquiring into the significance of the fact that Mexico had a president who was called “The Turk” because he was a trade unionist and a Freemason. It is intended to divert the cop from asking why Schrodinger’s Rapist likes to hang around oilfields built on the ground of countries whose legal codes are descended from those of the Renaissance Iberians. The laws that define minerals under the soil as the inalienable property of the People and their State are a product, not of the Marx-Engels dialectic, but of the legal theory bequeathed by Catholic scholasticism.

It
is the poetic resonance with the practices of that Unbought Church who call themselves Surrealists, that we believe that history shall remember Mexican president Plutarco Elias Calles as the one national leader who actually did tell the priests to ring the bells no longer. Perhaps he just wanted a period of quiet in which people could think for themselves, or perhaps he ws being moved by the greater reverberation of ancestors not very far under the ground who wanted
their voices to be heard.

Perhaps
he was going overboard in believing that the uprising of the Cristeros had been engineered by criminals and foreign agents – a sort of ghost version of Napoleon III that lives on in the dim Underworld. Then again, there really were agents of the European Banking System proclaiming to the Mexican government that the honeymoon period was over. Naturally, since Calles had the dour opinion that what was produced by Mexico should stay the property of Mexico, there was bound to be friction somewhere.

This
is the problem, when a people insists, that Reason is the Virgin Mary. Reason does not do a thing for you if you are a colonialist intent on rape, because Reason is on the side of those who have experienced victimization, yet managed to survive. Reason does not like it when a big Crude Oil consortium sets itself up as a colonial presence surrounded by Mexican slums. Reason sees the Crude Oil Brothers hunting down the union organizers, killing in the ghetto and getting away by bribing anyone who is important.

Call
religious terrorism another name, but it remains a force for keeping the people in bondage. It just so happened that Calles, who saw himself as a victim of superstition, was inclined to respond to the provocation aggressively – pretty much in the way that we would expect the President of Pakistan to act in dealing with the Taliban. After all, terrorism is terrorism, and the fact that one likes a religion should not blind one to the danger which can result if that religion is being abused.

Reason,
the child or stepchild of the Church which had disowned her, asserted that if the people do not have control of the ground and everything that is under it, then the people are being oppressed and exploited. This is a principle of Castillan law, one of the fruits of the scholastic system which gave the High Middle Ages a reputation for being an Age of Faith. If the Church did not want to defend Reason, then she should get out of the way, and allow those who actually were
men to prove themselves.

Since this perspective was considered abrasive by the State Department of a powerful northern neighbor, Calles had every reason to suspect that Bonapartist conspiracies would be everywhere, and that they would be aided and abetted by the Catholic Church. Religious terrorism is a difficult thing to deal with, and there is always something heartbreaking about having to take up arms against people who really believe that they are following the Will of God.

The
suicide squads who point antique rifles at the Federales are not the ones you really want to kill, but the real criminals will not come to the table until they see the evidence that you are able to isolate their goon-squads, and destroy the morale that makes the fanatics believe that they can go to heaven by provoking you into killing them.

Calles
was brutal, and Calles was too often bought, but Calles was capable of waging a cultural offensive, while negotiating, as a Freemason should, with anyone who was willing to be a part of what he considered to be “The Community of Reason.” Calles was able to insist that the Administration of Big Business in Washington DC replace the business-interest Ambassador with one who was willing to be part of “The Community of Reason.” This disarmed most of the Mexicans who wanted to kill Calles, and put Calles in the position of being the only one who dared lead the Mexicans as they entered the Great Depression. Eventually Calles was out-maneuvered by one of his own students, and sent into exile in Texas. Towards the end of his life he declared his faith in God and became a spiritualist.

Like
the Taliban, the Cristeros attempted to close down the government schools by cutting off the ears of the teachers. In one case, they went so far as to burn a government teacher at the stake.

Voice
of a Disembodied Spirit

These people who fight so ferociously against Reason and believe that they are serving God are right about one thing. At the core of their fanaticism lies the unshakable faith that God has tried to gift them with something priceless, and that they have been robbed. They stand at the opposite end of the spectrum from the Communists, who will only have reason and nothing else – yet at the core their complaint is the same. It is a pity to have to send out the army against these people, who believe that by attacking you with their obsolete weapons and forcing you to kill them, they have gotten on the fast track to Paradise. And yet, if you do not send the army, they will cut off the ears of your civil servants, and will sometimes do even worse things.

The Cristeros are right in believing that the peasants should not suffer as they do, and that society is sinful in treating them in the way that it does. But their solution is that everyone should suffer as they do, and that the only recreation should be their solemn holy days and their prayers. They refuse to submit to negotiation, because they believe that Jesus Christ himself has come to them to order their revolt. They are remarkably like the people of the Inquisition, and if we had given these Cristeros their way, we soon would find that Mexico was ruled once more by Paris and by Rome.

Yet the tragedy is that in many cases these Cristeros are the Native People whose culture we are trying to resurrect. They have suffered so much, they have come to see their oppressor as their protector. So as you see, these religious fanatics are the enemies of the nation, because they would destroy everything that gives character and resilience to the working classes, and would reduce our nation to a state of feudal subservience. But if we are to destroy their movement, it is not enough to just shoot the ones who attack government with guns and machettes – we also must work at the level of the village, to make sure that those who are left have something to live for. It is only when the poorest peasants have something that is theirs that they can live for, that the leaders of the state can be free from the fear that they will be attacked by suicidal fanatics.

Eventually,
finding that the Cristeros were doing nothing to improve the Church’s public relations, the Church hierarchy encouraged the rebels to submit to the arbitration offered by the United States ambassador.
The Government was able to establish the separation of the Church from the State. The government maintained nominal ownership of Church properties, but the Church was allowed to use its traditional buildings, pretty much as it pleased. The Church bells began to ring once more, and became a significant part of what the people now think of as the Mexican Culture.

Voice
of Plutarco Calles

The big players were out of the game, but the spirit of the rebellion did not die down so easily. The thought of dying in a holy war and going to heaven is a very intoxicating one, and that is the problem. If all of the players had acted more honorably, it would have been possible to detox the people from their jihad intoxication by introducing them to the real gratification that comes as one finds oneself and one’s family participating in a meaningful way in building up the prosperity of one’s own community.

Unfortunately, this did not happen for everyone. Those who were children before WWII grew up craving the same sort of intoxication. In the years since the defeat of Mousolini, the Catholic Church has become more moderate, but the craving that people who are alienated from their roots feel for unhealthy excitement has not. Religion may be the opiate of the people, but since Mexican Catholicism has been distilled to serve as a stimulant, it no longer has much power to calm people down so that they can listen to reason. And so the great grandchildren of those who were Soldiers for Christ have now become soldiers for drugs.

i Information
on Masonic & related orders was gleaned from Wikipedia &
other web sources

Paranoid Above, Paranoid Below

Paranoid Above, Paranoid Below

 

Feb 9, 2004:

Good morning, all you listeners on Paranoid Alien Radio. We have a few more facts that should make your morning paranoid – but first for a word from our sponsor:

It’s true enough, we all have wandered from the Path. We all have known moments when we have been brutal because our faith was failing. But does not every chronic abuser justify his wickedness by rubbing our noses in the truth of our own inconstancy?

Hello, this is Paranoid Alien Radio, broadcasting on 1519 killing hurts. We who are the Paranoid Aliens are trying to remind you, that the time has come that the Great Tribunal must commence, on Earth as it is in your Heaven. The time has come for all of your bloodlines, and all of your corporate entities which have the audacity to masquerade as persons, to give us a proper accounting of just how they have managed the resources of Earth’s people.

1. We who are Paranoid Aliens are here to make sure that the work of the Genocide Tribunal does not become forever stalled. We would prefer that this Judgement be accomplished by scholars who are experienced in the fields of Human Jurisprudence. We do not want to have to amplify the experience with Cecil de Mille sound effects and Lukas films pyrotechnics, but we have not ruled that option out.
2. We who are Paranoid Aliens simply want those who call themselves serious thinkers to examine the way that you Earthlings commit genocide against your own tribes. Don’t think that you can get away with maintaining your cover-up by striking back at us – it will still be two or three thousand years, at least, before your technology can cross the leagues of space-time that divide us. Two or three thousand years, yes, but the collective mind of humanity works slowly; you are only beginning to wake up to what Socrates was trying to teach in the halcyon days of Old Athens. And so we want you to appreciate why we who are Paranoid Aliens are becoming more and more paranoid about the Human Race. Don’t go on thinking that you shall be allowed to Enterprise other star systems, before your Genocide Tribunal has become a world ceremony that has become internalized within your midbrains.
3. Until you repent and make meaningful reparation to your own tribes, there shall be no room in the rest of the Orion Cluster for your genocidal tradition.

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We all are called to testify, because the issue on the table of the genocide tribunal concerns our common humanity. The real issue continues to be the same as it was in the days of Sylvia Plath: shall Humanity be allowed to commit suicide, or shall there be a cultural resurrection which shall justify our hopes and dreams?

What shall posterity – if earthlings are allowed to have posterity – make of the romances of men who remain convinced that because their great-grandparents owned plantations, they are a master-race? Shall we allow this sort of romanticism to extenuate itself by declaring that the Black Men needed to be schooled with whips and chains? What is to prevent this pseudo-religious romanticism from becoming so bold that it shall declare, that the Jews needed the scourge of the Holocaust?

The Judges of the Genocide Tribunal shall need to examine the torture chambers, and consider the pain of the victims. They must walk on those decks of the Ship of Shame which once reverberated with the screams of men who were being tortured and women who were being raped by dogs. Lucifer, who was so complacent when he was an angel, must be made to hide his face beneath the highest mountains.

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How to Serve Man

How to Serve Man

(a cookbook)

Sept.
12, 2001

The Sun is rising once again over that bend on the Kit Carson Highway,
where, just yesterday, a Yeti stumbled out from the woods and got
himself roadkilled.

I listen to the radio, and feel a strange emotion. The news confirms
the horrible suspicions I have had, concerning the destination toward
which Your Social Reason (URIZEN) is trying to deliver us.

When we tune in to Paranoid Alien Radio, we hear warnings of what the
Starlords who shape the policies of the Paranoid Aliens are
attempting.

As I listen to Paranoid Alien Radio, I am trying to follow a recipe, so
that I can bake me a new loaf of cornbread to replace the one that
became just as charred as my innocence while I listened to
yesterday’s mews.

When I tune in to CNN, I see what Paranoid Alien Radio is trying to warn
us about. We look at the new converts to the Cult of the Starlords
wandering through the ruins of the New York City World Trade Center.
They are not deterred by the yellow police tape; apparently, neither
fire nor falling objects can hurt them any longer. Whenever they
encounter someone who is still one of us, they proseletize and hand
him a copy of what is apparently their Holy Book.

The golden Old Manuscript lettering printed across the crimson leather
covers spells in English, How to Serve Man. It is so marvelous
that, in our time of peril, the legions of the Starlords have come
down to give us a hand.

Our enchantment is dampened when a Jewish professor from the University
informs us that he has seen that kind of leather before. In the
Holocaust Museum at Belsen. It is a type of hide with a grain that is
unmistakable. These Bibles have been bound in human skin!

The Jew then produces a Kabalistic device of diamonds and symbols that he
calls the “Tree of Life.” Using this diagram as a decoding
instrument, he shows us what the main chapter headings say, in the
Language of the Constellations. For instance

• Make
  sure you remove the entrails
• Which
  body parts can be eaten, and by whom.
• Skinning
  the hide, and preparing it for market.
• Human
  Thigh, stuffed and roasted over hot coals
• How
  to prepare breast, belly, and back meat.
• Warning:
  human hearts are always the property of your expedition commander.
  How to offer them properly.

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Good Morning morning out there in Paranoid Alien land. Is there anyone out there

who still is sufficiently in touch with the Four Directions, that he is able to do a rain dance and bring down real rain? 

The oven timer reminds me, the mistake of yesterday is not to be repeated. I open the oven door, and liberated corn-spirits spread their aroma all over the kitchen.

“So how do you like me now?”

Unmistakably, this is the Corn Mother with an attitude.

“Do you think that all that screaming just came out of New York?” she challenges me. “Will anyone dare to ask me, why the White Snake and the Black Snake are fighting?”

The corn husks which cover her breasts are beginning to spread apart. My attention is fixed on the cleft between her breasts.

“When the Angel of Death looked down on the two pyramids that had been raised up in lower Manhattan by the Priests of the Proud,” she explains to me, “she didn’t see anything that even looked like menstrual blood painted on the roof-combs. And you will have to realize that the children who have died from malnutrition and preventable diseases are driving that Fury crazy by demanding to know why their brothers and sisters are going to have to die too.”

Something is now screaming in my oven. When I look in, I see two witnesses howling in death-agony as they lie on a blockaded street. A NASA van roars in from Houston and is admitted through the police line. The two carcasses are loaded aboard for transport to the National Testing Grounds at Alamagordo. 

Eventually, after the fighting is over, and all of the tests that the U.S. government treasury can be billed for are performed, the stuffed hides shall be delivered to the International UFO Museum & Research Center on Main Street.

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Do you call it revolution? I rather would consider, the social historians 100 years in the future shall call it, the creation of a new calendar of civilization.
In 2012, so they say, the ancient Maya calendar shall have traversed the 25 Intercalary Years between the Old Calendar which ended in 1987, and the New Calendar, which shall only be given to Man, if the Lady Who Is Crowned by the Sun is pleased with what She sees.
According to all traditions, an Intercalary Period of this sort is extremely perilous. During this time when the Lady of the Sun and the Moon is deciding on whether to give the Human Race a new calendar, all of the four-footed brothers and sisters, all of the winged brothers and sisters, all of the brothers and sisters that swim, waddle or crawl, shall be asked to give their testimony, on how the Two-Legged tribes have treated the world which they have been given. Even the Tree People who are rooted in the forests and the jungle shall be asked to give their testimony.
There are legal complaints which all of these parties have filed, over the nature of the stewardship exerted over the Planet Earth by it’s reigning Intelligent Species. As a result of these complaints against Mankind, it is predicted that the advent of the New Calendar shall be signaled by severe disruptions of the seasons

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