06-26-2012, 10:17 PM
(This post was last modified: 06-26-2012, 10:30 PM by indolering.)
.
And now for something a little different. This next article is one of my favorites, it's conspiracy oriented and quite humorous. It's a tour de force of the bourgeoning conspiracy genre, and contains an hilarious spoof of the movie Easy Rider with Peter Fonda, Dennis Hopper and Jack Nicholson. It's a little long but I think you'll agree it's well-written and informative.
We Go to the Tim Beckley National New Age and Alien Agenda Conference
The world isn’t what you think it is
Unless of course you’ve always thought that "Through The Looking Glass" is a documentary description of the way things are, that every official science and social-study is a "tale told by an idiot";
unless you’ve always thought that secret societies, hidden governments and controlling families hold the keys of power while everything’s intentionally oriented in the wrong direction,
unless you’ve always thought that conventional interpretations of reality were a deliberately administered drug, doping into a collective dream so that ineffectual gestures cast shadows on a wall that accordingly moves but by means of cables concealed behind; and that those cables extend down old abandoned elevator shafts and derelict mines into tunneled phantasmagorias that effectually honeycomb the Earth’s insides hiding cavernous fortresses, halls of civilizations "lost" and exotic armamentariums where refugees from unknown eras of the planet’s surface mingle with interdimensional mercenaries, and every manner of being from beyond the parochial framework capable of streaming in on secret lines of linkage from the farthest star sets up shop, establishes staging outposts for one or another purpose in the proper—dimensional—pockets formed in the seals of the Earth’s concentric "centers",
unless you’ve always thought that from such sealed centers, the various influences of diverse agencies are sent to the surface on beams of technical magic generating stresses in our psychic atmospheres according to some desire to accelerate or retard the evolutionary development of the consciousness on the crust;
unless you’ve always thought that, through the interaction of such criss-cross rays there convened the secret histories behind all pasteboard fictions—the basic Unity in the mock "plurality" of powers detectable at those blurred scams of conspiratorial overlap where certain officers of the mundane order always hold concurrent—if camouflaged—posts upon interlocking boards of "occult" directorates through which the kingmakers are actually anointed, the secret governments silently installed...
unless you’ve always thought that those subterraneous forces fight an ongoing battle for the hearts and minds of uncommitted man toward the time accordingly prepared when there would either be a sufficiency of corresponding substance to actualize the birth of Conscious freedom or to materialize that eldritch vision, the return to daylight consciousness of the twilight armies of the Elder Race—the emergence into mundane history of the Old Ones of the Night of Time..
unless of course you’ve always thought it was something like that.
Otherwise, you’ve got quite a surprise coming.
Indeed as we of the winged T-Bird floated over the forested, two-lane Arizona highway in our rented van, detouring to catch the Canyon in a sheer gauze of rain while making our angular route to Phoenix and the "Tim Beckley Annual UFO Convention"—miles and outstretched miles across that reminiscent ribbon of blacktop beneath beaming arches of a double rainbow, L.A. behind in a rapidly-dissipating dream of departure through a smokering shroud—it felt as if one could be perfectly at peace with any tidy version of America, any hallowed parchment in an empty gallery...
It all seemed perfectly permissible since this was the Storybook version, these unspoiled hills and diamond skies—any retrogressive estimate, any grade-school atavism molded again to manageable proportions and all ringed ’round with the safely-habitable, politely conformable world would suffice and survive in an atmosphere so equal to the simplicity such sentiment required, all could be sustained without subscribing to a single thing. Here in this very place if anywhere at all that ultimate vision of man’s politicized peace could find its suitably pastoral correlative—here in the very place where in fact it was most perfectly belied...
It was all like a typical Hitchcock movie—opening shots of a bucolic American burg clean as the angle on a T-square and background music belonging to Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood—but wait, that set-up innocence is by now dead giveaway that there’s something rotten, basically awful lurking just below the kodachrome surface! The now-famous Lynch would continue a brain-damaged version of such a theme as the ’80s slouched toward the inevitable ’90s, rendering the whole wholesome scene as a surreal commercial skimming over the happy hamlet on the camera-wing of a golden oriole, over treetops and firehouse and across leaf-rustled schoolyard dropping softly on a garden beneath the sunny shale of which, lifted just a little, we see a crawling beetle in the bright-green blades, and leveraged a little more so as to rip up some of the overgrown slipgrass we begin to see first signs of real vermin.... and as the rock is peeled back like the back of a skull from a rotted corpse the whole miasmal swarm of centipedes and maggot-brood overspills in soundtrack amplification like the munching of a million mites on gristle...
So one muses while taking in the pine and scented cedar of whistle-clean Flagstaff (that evening, indeed, first glimpse at the paper in the motel room two girls attacked by unknown assailant on that very highway, where the roadsigns like abandoned Burma-shave boards warn Prison Zone, don’t pick up hitchhikers).
Even as the lovely, meditative miles spooled off from that veritable ribbon of two-lane one couldn’t help but consider how far it all was from the spirit of Easy Rider which it nonetheless evoked indeed. "What a long strange trip it’s been"! One recalled that most famous of celluloid scenes from the ’60s, in which Hopper and Fonda gleefully conspire to get Jack Nicholson’s straight-Southern lawyer stoned for the first time beneath a wooded American night-sky, and Nicholson proceeds to take them on a trip as he loosens up and begins the celebrated soliloquy as to how those satellites are often saucers in disguise and how the spacepeople have been monitoring this planet for ages—one remembered the dream-lidded dubiety of Hopper’s "Billy", and Fonda’s progressive facial register of his trademark "far out "...
Suppose, in our collectively stoned condition, the scene doesn’t stop there but goes right straight on—in an exponentially paranoic time ellipse—as Nicholson keeps puffing and proclaims "yes, and not only have the spacebeings been monitoring us but they’ve actually made themselves known to our government and have made a secret pact with the military at the highest levels, you know... "
He proceeds—yes—Joints passed gingerly through the audience as attention becomes thoroughly sucked up in the enveloping immensity of the Screen...
"Of course the military’s interested in the arrangement because of their highly advanced technology and the implicit threat their superior knowledge poses to the whole safety of the planet Earth and civilization as we know it... "
Fonda’s lids lift in puffy pantomime of the proverbial "far out"....
"But what the spacebeings are interested in is interbreeding wilh Earth women in order to improve their genetic stock, which has been severely damaged by nuclear holocausts on their own world... "
Hopper rolls his eyes moonward in appeal to the patron of lunatics, takes another hit as Fonda in sheer mesmeric fascination moves around the campfire closer to the raptured Nicholson...
"And the secret government, you know the military-industrial complex and its espionage agencies and the Council on Foreign Relations and the Illuminati and the Jason Scholars and the Club of Rome and the Bilderbergers and the Masons and the Elks and the Shriners, the secret government decides to the aliens’ terms in the hopes of keeping their abduction activities to a limited basis that can be supervised, so we exchange the promise of a full list of the borrowed citizens used in their genetic experiments and returned undamaged for the guarantee of acquiring their advanced scientific knowledge so we can forge far ahead of the Russians and at the same time raise ourselves onto a par with the spacebeings. Of course," Jack continues, staring slit-eyed into the fire, "we figure these spacebeings aren’t used to Earth-deals, our military figures that it’s slickered these rubbery skinned rubes from Orion and all the while it doesn’t realize that it’s they themselves that have been slickered. "
"I suppose these space dudes have fine print in their contract what’d they do, have you for their attorney?" Hopper jeers, Bogarting the last of the Joint that’s lingered twelve eternities as an idle glow in the shadow between his fingers.
"That’s correct," Jack forges on, "the fine print as you so sagely remark, implicitly stated that these spacebeings had just been given carte blanche because of a little-known clause of cosmic law which was just not the Earth government’s forte. And that law states that the sanctity, the internal self-contained development of a planetary culture or society cannot be violated except on invitation extended an outside agency by the free Will of that culture, through its overt or implicit representatives."
"Come again?" Fonda interjects after what seems to be an interminable suspension of time, every audible nuance in the crackle of the campfire meticulously subdividing into separate infinities of tone..
"You heard correctly my friend. It turns out that, once the invitation is extended by making a pact or treaty, the spacebeings that are negatively polarized and therefore not honorbound to observe the specific terms of any agreement, are perfectly able to maraud and plunder according to the actual spirit or true character that originally sparked the agreement. Since the whole treaty was inspired in the first place by designs of military supremacy, control and conquest, the spacebeings of negative orientation take that to be the real governing terms of their own activity. So the military comes to find out that they’ve violated the agreement, that they’re only submitting fractional lists of the actual number of unsuspecting citizens they’ve been abducting and subjecting to genetic experiments, medical examinations, brainwashing and post-hypnotic suggestion, amnesia, monitor implanting of a surgical type and so forth... "
"So what exactly does the military and the secret power-structure do when it finds out about this infraction?" Fonda asks, spellbound with the tiny image of the bonfire dancing in each glazed pup of his eyes.
"Well, naturally, it goes right ahead and uses as much of the alien technology as is doled out by the comparative eyedropper, to abduct and brainwash and implant U S citizens as well... "
"Good." Hopper chortles, "We’ll retaliate the execution on U.S. hostages by taking American citizens hostage and executing them ourselves!’"
"That’s sort of the logic, alright," Jack drawls. "You see what the government started getting concerned about, was the number that really seemed to be involved here, and that it wasn’t only miscellaneous citizens they were finding with ’missing time’ but military personnel, government officials and people in key positions of power, everywhere..." Cut back and forth to successively tight shots on Fonda’s "far out" expression... "Well, the government begins to figure that the only thing it can do is either go to the American people through the mass media and confess the fact that it’d closed a bad deal behind everyone’s back and appeal to the enlightened concernment of the general citizenry, or it can clam up, spare itself the embarrassment and the implicit revelation concerning the character of routine behavior-patterns, and develop its own preemptive strike capabilities using a combination of what it could extract of alien technology and the advanced work of its best scientific minds."
Read more: http://www.bibliotecapleyades.net/cienci...pper03.htm
Yes, well I agree with your statements above - but they don't address the issue of YCYOR.
And now for something a little different. This next article is one of my favorites, it's conspiracy oriented and quite humorous. It's a tour de force of the bourgeoning conspiracy genre, and contains an hilarious spoof of the movie Easy Rider with Peter Fonda, Dennis Hopper and Jack Nicholson. It's a little long but I think you'll agree it's well-written and informative.
T-Bird Meets The Phoenix
We Go to the Tim Beckley National New Age and Alien Agenda Conference
The world isn’t what you think it is
Unless of course you’ve always thought that "Through The Looking Glass" is a documentary description of the way things are, that every official science and social-study is a "tale told by an idiot";
unless you’ve always thought that secret societies, hidden governments and controlling families hold the keys of power while everything’s intentionally oriented in the wrong direction,
unless you’ve always thought that conventional interpretations of reality were a deliberately administered drug, doping into a collective dream so that ineffectual gestures cast shadows on a wall that accordingly moves but by means of cables concealed behind; and that those cables extend down old abandoned elevator shafts and derelict mines into tunneled phantasmagorias that effectually honeycomb the Earth’s insides hiding cavernous fortresses, halls of civilizations "lost" and exotic armamentariums where refugees from unknown eras of the planet’s surface mingle with interdimensional mercenaries, and every manner of being from beyond the parochial framework capable of streaming in on secret lines of linkage from the farthest star sets up shop, establishes staging outposts for one or another purpose in the proper—dimensional—pockets formed in the seals of the Earth’s concentric "centers",
unless you’ve always thought that from such sealed centers, the various influences of diverse agencies are sent to the surface on beams of technical magic generating stresses in our psychic atmospheres according to some desire to accelerate or retard the evolutionary development of the consciousness on the crust;
unless you’ve always thought that, through the interaction of such criss-cross rays there convened the secret histories behind all pasteboard fictions—the basic Unity in the mock "plurality" of powers detectable at those blurred scams of conspiratorial overlap where certain officers of the mundane order always hold concurrent—if camouflaged—posts upon interlocking boards of "occult" directorates through which the kingmakers are actually anointed, the secret governments silently installed...
unless you’ve always thought that those subterraneous forces fight an ongoing battle for the hearts and minds of uncommitted man toward the time accordingly prepared when there would either be a sufficiency of corresponding substance to actualize the birth of Conscious freedom or to materialize that eldritch vision, the return to daylight consciousness of the twilight armies of the Elder Race—the emergence into mundane history of the Old Ones of the Night of Time..
unless of course you’ve always thought it was something like that.
Otherwise, you’ve got quite a surprise coming.
Indeed as we of the winged T-Bird floated over the forested, two-lane Arizona highway in our rented van, detouring to catch the Canyon in a sheer gauze of rain while making our angular route to Phoenix and the "Tim Beckley Annual UFO Convention"—miles and outstretched miles across that reminiscent ribbon of blacktop beneath beaming arches of a double rainbow, L.A. behind in a rapidly-dissipating dream of departure through a smokering shroud—it felt as if one could be perfectly at peace with any tidy version of America, any hallowed parchment in an empty gallery...
It all seemed perfectly permissible since this was the Storybook version, these unspoiled hills and diamond skies—any retrogressive estimate, any grade-school atavism molded again to manageable proportions and all ringed ’round with the safely-habitable, politely conformable world would suffice and survive in an atmosphere so equal to the simplicity such sentiment required, all could be sustained without subscribing to a single thing. Here in this very place if anywhere at all that ultimate vision of man’s politicized peace could find its suitably pastoral correlative—here in the very place where in fact it was most perfectly belied...
It was all like a typical Hitchcock movie—opening shots of a bucolic American burg clean as the angle on a T-square and background music belonging to Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood—but wait, that set-up innocence is by now dead giveaway that there’s something rotten, basically awful lurking just below the kodachrome surface! The now-famous Lynch would continue a brain-damaged version of such a theme as the ’80s slouched toward the inevitable ’90s, rendering the whole wholesome scene as a surreal commercial skimming over the happy hamlet on the camera-wing of a golden oriole, over treetops and firehouse and across leaf-rustled schoolyard dropping softly on a garden beneath the sunny shale of which, lifted just a little, we see a crawling beetle in the bright-green blades, and leveraged a little more so as to rip up some of the overgrown slipgrass we begin to see first signs of real vermin.... and as the rock is peeled back like the back of a skull from a rotted corpse the whole miasmal swarm of centipedes and maggot-brood overspills in soundtrack amplification like the munching of a million mites on gristle...
So one muses while taking in the pine and scented cedar of whistle-clean Flagstaff (that evening, indeed, first glimpse at the paper in the motel room two girls attacked by unknown assailant on that very highway, where the roadsigns like abandoned Burma-shave boards warn Prison Zone, don’t pick up hitchhikers).
Even as the lovely, meditative miles spooled off from that veritable ribbon of two-lane one couldn’t help but consider how far it all was from the spirit of Easy Rider which it nonetheless evoked indeed. "What a long strange trip it’s been"! One recalled that most famous of celluloid scenes from the ’60s, in which Hopper and Fonda gleefully conspire to get Jack Nicholson’s straight-Southern lawyer stoned for the first time beneath a wooded American night-sky, and Nicholson proceeds to take them on a trip as he loosens up and begins the celebrated soliloquy as to how those satellites are often saucers in disguise and how the spacepeople have been monitoring this planet for ages—one remembered the dream-lidded dubiety of Hopper’s "Billy", and Fonda’s progressive facial register of his trademark "far out "...
Suppose, in our collectively stoned condition, the scene doesn’t stop there but goes right straight on—in an exponentially paranoic time ellipse—as Nicholson keeps puffing and proclaims "yes, and not only have the spacebeings been monitoring us but they’ve actually made themselves known to our government and have made a secret pact with the military at the highest levels, you know... "
He proceeds—yes—Joints passed gingerly through the audience as attention becomes thoroughly sucked up in the enveloping immensity of the Screen...
"Of course the military’s interested in the arrangement because of their highly advanced technology and the implicit threat their superior knowledge poses to the whole safety of the planet Earth and civilization as we know it... "
Fonda’s lids lift in puffy pantomime of the proverbial "far out"....
"But what the spacebeings are interested in is interbreeding wilh Earth women in order to improve their genetic stock, which has been severely damaged by nuclear holocausts on their own world... "
Hopper rolls his eyes moonward in appeal to the patron of lunatics, takes another hit as Fonda in sheer mesmeric fascination moves around the campfire closer to the raptured Nicholson...
"And the secret government, you know the military-industrial complex and its espionage agencies and the Council on Foreign Relations and the Illuminati and the Jason Scholars and the Club of Rome and the Bilderbergers and the Masons and the Elks and the Shriners, the secret government decides to the aliens’ terms in the hopes of keeping their abduction activities to a limited basis that can be supervised, so we exchange the promise of a full list of the borrowed citizens used in their genetic experiments and returned undamaged for the guarantee of acquiring their advanced scientific knowledge so we can forge far ahead of the Russians and at the same time raise ourselves onto a par with the spacebeings. Of course," Jack continues, staring slit-eyed into the fire, "we figure these spacebeings aren’t used to Earth-deals, our military figures that it’s slickered these rubbery skinned rubes from Orion and all the while it doesn’t realize that it’s they themselves that have been slickered. "
"I suppose these space dudes have fine print in their contract what’d they do, have you for their attorney?" Hopper jeers, Bogarting the last of the Joint that’s lingered twelve eternities as an idle glow in the shadow between his fingers.
"That’s correct," Jack forges on, "the fine print as you so sagely remark, implicitly stated that these spacebeings had just been given carte blanche because of a little-known clause of cosmic law which was just not the Earth government’s forte. And that law states that the sanctity, the internal self-contained development of a planetary culture or society cannot be violated except on invitation extended an outside agency by the free Will of that culture, through its overt or implicit representatives."
"Come again?" Fonda interjects after what seems to be an interminable suspension of time, every audible nuance in the crackle of the campfire meticulously subdividing into separate infinities of tone..
"You heard correctly my friend. It turns out that, once the invitation is extended by making a pact or treaty, the spacebeings that are negatively polarized and therefore not honorbound to observe the specific terms of any agreement, are perfectly able to maraud and plunder according to the actual spirit or true character that originally sparked the agreement. Since the whole treaty was inspired in the first place by designs of military supremacy, control and conquest, the spacebeings of negative orientation take that to be the real governing terms of their own activity. So the military comes to find out that they’ve violated the agreement, that they’re only submitting fractional lists of the actual number of unsuspecting citizens they’ve been abducting and subjecting to genetic experiments, medical examinations, brainwashing and post-hypnotic suggestion, amnesia, monitor implanting of a surgical type and so forth... "
"So what exactly does the military and the secret power-structure do when it finds out about this infraction?" Fonda asks, spellbound with the tiny image of the bonfire dancing in each glazed pup of his eyes.
"Well, naturally, it goes right ahead and uses as much of the alien technology as is doled out by the comparative eyedropper, to abduct and brainwash and implant U S citizens as well... "
"Good." Hopper chortles, "We’ll retaliate the execution on U.S. hostages by taking American citizens hostage and executing them ourselves!’"
"That’s sort of the logic, alright," Jack drawls. "You see what the government started getting concerned about, was the number that really seemed to be involved here, and that it wasn’t only miscellaneous citizens they were finding with ’missing time’ but military personnel, government officials and people in key positions of power, everywhere..." Cut back and forth to successively tight shots on Fonda’s "far out" expression... "Well, the government begins to figure that the only thing it can do is either go to the American people through the mass media and confess the fact that it’d closed a bad deal behind everyone’s back and appeal to the enlightened concernment of the general citizenry, or it can clam up, spare itself the embarrassment and the implicit revelation concerning the character of routine behavior-patterns, and develop its own preemptive strike capabilities using a combination of what it could extract of alien technology and the advanced work of its best scientific minds."
Read more: http://www.bibliotecapleyades.net/cienci...pper03.htm
(06-26-2012, 10:05 PM)Patrick Wrote: My meaning was in the deeper sense. In that it is my belief that we are all responsible for the state of things on this planet. Even Wanderers, they (we) accept a share of this responsibility by coming here. It is an honor/duty to help transmute this karma.
Yes, well I agree with your statements above - but they don't address the issue of YCYOR.
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