THE OVERVIEW EFFECT
"Two things are Universal: Hydrogen and stupidity."
― Frank Zappa *
If you entered the term "astronaut" in the "occupation" field of a "job" application, you'd be telling the truth. Each and every person on this planet is an astronaut.
Most shudder at the thought of traveling into space. "It's so cold and scary out there!" Yet, where do folks think they reside; some idyllic utopia, outside of space?!
If you've yet to eradicate the malware that's been uploaded into your brain, Earth is in space. Since you've resided on this planet your entire existence, you've been in space since your inception. That would make you an astronaut.
Gnaw on that gristle of reality, as…
The microscopic man stared through the diminutive window at the planet in his wake.
That was Earth; that was home.
A fat syringe of uncut truth pierced his eyeball, as he gazed at the endless Universe in the background. He wasn't even a flea in the overall spectrum.
This challenged everything he'd been brainwashed to believe. His "faith" in Christ was suddenly threatened. Given the enormity of what he was looking at, did it make sense what created all this was human?!
We're told Christ is God, and Christ obviously looks Homo sapien, but did that now seem logical, staring into the vastness? The prospect appeared damned arrogant, and the man trembled, as the sacerdotal ideology he'd placed his bets on collapsed.
"The more you begin to investigate what we think we understand, where we came from, what we think we're doing, the more you begin to see we've been lied to. We've been lied to by every institution. What makes you think for one minute that the religious institution is the only one that's never been touched?
The religious institutions of this world are at the bottom of the dirt. The religious institutions in this world are put there by the same people who gave you your government, your corrupt education, who set up your international banking cartels.
We have been misled away from the true and divine presence in the Universe that men have called God. I don't know what God is, but I know what he isn't. And unless and until your are prepared to look at the whole truth — wherever it may go, whoever it may lead to — the more you educate yourself, the more you understand where things comes from, the more obvious things become, and you begin to see lies everywhere.
You have to know the truth, and seek the truth, and the truth will set you free."
― Jordan Maxwell **
**
The confining quarters of the capsule closed in on him, and his head spun like some fucked-up fairground ride engineered to make people puke. Not only had his religion been a lie, but so too had his belief in "America." From this vantage point, there was no fuckin' "America." In fact, there were no "countries" at all.
Strange. He had flown hundreds of planes, but had never made the connection, until now. From this distance, global unity was all there was, since he was able to see the entire globe. Aboard a plane, such wasn't so; he still gazed down upon a landscape spanning the horizon.
The surge of reality flooded his synapses, as the unwavering truth drowned his programmed mind. The frail human cogitated, alone in the dark void, "It's all been a lie, hasn't it?!"
The man's pallor drained, as reality hit hard. "Everything," the tiny Homo sapien ruminated. "All I am, and all I've ever been, has been a lie!"
"What's troubling you? You've seemed anxious, since returning to ― well, Earth."
The psychiatrist opened her laptop, and began typing. "Did something happen out there you'd like to discuss?"
The astronaut grimaced.
"William, you know our sessions are strictly confidential. You can tell me whatever you'd like, and I won't divulge a word of it to the media."
Struggling with the truth, the man ground his teeth like Folgers does coffee. "We should take that useless bullshit the government tells us is currency, recycle it into blank sheets of paper, and finally print something useful on it ― The Constitution of Humanity."
The woman glanced up from the monitor. "Have you been getting enough sleep?"
"Only, this Constitution isn't a contract. Nobody's 'bound' by it ― unlike the motherfuckin' U.S. Constitution―"
"You definitely need more sleep. I'm going to prescribe something that will help―"
"No, this is simply a 'thank you' note to the Earth―"
"A what?!"
"A 'thank you' note to the Earth."
"William, I know I'm not your regular psychiatrist, so I have to ask, 'Have you ever been diagnosed with depression?' "
"Thank you for being such a lenient landlord; putting up with our decimation of your idyllic property ― setting fire to it countless times; killing most of our neighbors; and shitting in the swimming pool the past 200 years of our lease―"
The woman snatched a conveniently placed bottle of pills, and began filling a prescription. "These are not over-the-counter, so the only place you can get them is right―"
The exhausted man grabbed her arm. "Are you even listening?!"
It's known as the Overview Effect, and it's that shock of reality astronauts feel when staring back at Earth from off planet. Our viewpoints tend to be myopic, due to our skies appearing blue, the Sun shining, and the fact we don't float away ― thanks to a lack of gravity.
As a result, most of us spend our entire existences never realizing we're in space.
Such being so, we're perpetually engaged in space travel. That means each and every one of us on this planet is an astronaut.
As R. Buckminster Fuller inculcated: We're aboard Spaceship Earth, traveling about this Solar System.
Since we're all astronauts, why do we feel it's necessary to wait for some corporate mascot ― garbed in a suit bedecked with "American" flags ― to leave Earth, and gaze back on it to experience the Overview Effect? These douche bags look like race car drivers ― in their stupid jumpsuits, sporting more logos than Times Square. Some of us didn't need to depart the planet, in order to realize "countries" don't exist, borders are an illusion, and we're all one.
SOURCES:
ONLINE SOURCES:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Overview_effect
THE SAN AUGUSTIN UFO CRASH
"I closed on this thing that looked like a weather balloon, and that's what I'd presumed it was. And I had plenty of gas and time, so I just decided I'd just come back around and make a pass on it.
I got around where I should've been comin' back on this thing, all of a sudden it didn't look like a balloon anymore. It looked like a saucer sitting on edge; 'bout a 45 degree angle.
I didn't have any gun camera film on board, unfortunately, or I'd have shot some pictures of it.
And about that time I guess whatever it was, for whatever reasons, took off climbin' at about a 45 degree angle, and just accelerated and disappeared. I obviously couldn't follow it with an old piston engine fighter, so I turned around and went home."
― astronaut "Deke" Slayton *
“What the fuck―?!” It was a phrase Barney Barnett had only used twice. Both other instances came in the heat of battle during World War I.
We’re talkin’ an upstanding member of his community; a person who toed the line without fail. A happily married guy who never shirked a church gathering nor Rotary meeting.
Barney wasn’t prone to lies. Especially lies regarding crashed UFOs and alien bodies strewn across the desert.
Still, here he found himself ― assiduous Soil Conservation Service stiff ― staring down at an immobilized flying saucer and it’s defunct crew.
Morning sunlight had reflected off the alloy vessel, catching Barney’s attention on the back roads of the Plains. Out here in no man’s land, anything manufactured stood out like an honest word from Harry Truman’s mouth, and Barnett knew it.
As his 1938 Ford truck approached the craft, the God-fearing American could see the downed occupants more clearly. From the ridge, the bodies appeared to be corpses. Although each had two arms, two legs and a head, they were too small to be fully-grown humans. Children, maybe, but not adults.
And what about those heads? Even though he was some distance away, the craniums dwarfed whatever pittance of a skull he boasted atop his neck.
Pulling to a dusty stop, Barney parked, and stared down at the wreckage.
An engineer, he’d been lauded for his ability to make expeditious and insightful decisions. Yet, here he sat, uncertain of his next move. As far as anyone else knew, he hadn’t seen anything, and could simply head back to Socorro and nobody would be the wiser.
The option was more tempting than a juicy rib eye and a side of hot, buttered green beans, but a part of Barney had to know. That part of him had caused him to become an amateur astronomer. That portion of the soil conservationist had demanded he invest $1.50 per year in The Sky ― a periodical for neophyte celestial enthusiasts.
Gripping the door handle on his worn vehicle, it was this adventurous side that assumed control. A lifetime of "doing the right thing" launched him from the cracked fabric seat of the truck and onto the chalky desert floor.
Sand clods exploded beneath Barney’s boots, as he strode toward the anomalies. Although it was mid-morning, it was hot enough in these parts to toast bread on a scorched outcropping. Sunbeams reflected off the dull, matte finish of the craft.
The first thing Barnett noticed was the lack of secondary wreckage. It appeared as if the vehicle had remained primarily intact.
The skintight clothing the creatures wore was of interest, as well. Barney had never seen its equal. This was 1947, and Spandex wouldn’t be invented until 1959.
Initially, the engineer thought the crash may have been a plane. At least that’s how it appeared from a distance. As he closed on the wreckage, he quickly realized this was no conventional craft, and the bodies before him weren’t human.
The downed vehicle was in the neighborhood of 25 to 30 feet in diameter. Barnett noted a rent in the craft. From it, spilled four carcasses. Two of the dead remained inside the vessel, while the others lay outside.
Judging by the lack of weathering to the cadavers, and the fact they hadn’t been scavenged by predators, the engineer deduced this wreck was fresh.
He hadn’t seen anything anomalous trailing from the sky while he’d been on the road. There were no dust trails in the craft’s wake. Hence, perhaps “fresh” in this case denoted a crash hours before.
Nobody else had happened upon the site, which wasn’t shocking since the Plains of San Augustin were 59 miles long, and up to 19 miles wide. Out here, you could easily crash something this large in the dead of night, and nobody would be the wiser.
A technical man, Barney was preoccupied with the vessel, although he kept what he prayed were corpses in his peripheral vision. A furious, resurrected alien was the last thing he needed.
The tiny, four-fingered creatures may have looked frail, but Barnett reasoned they were endowed with robust attributes enabling them to undergo interplanetary travel.
Extending a trembling hand toward the craft, he could feel residual heat emanating from the fuselage.
Two kangaroo rats scurried from a crop of prickly pear to Barney’s right, startling the normally calm man. Recoiling, Barnett composed himself, swept away the sea of sweat cascading down his brow, and returned to the task at hand.
In 1947, radioactive fallout was a new fear, but being a voracious reader, the engineer knew enough about it to realize it was a tangle of Devil’s Rope he wanted no part of. Curiosity had a hold of him, though, as his fingertips pressed firmly against the dirty metal.
Power was the first sensation. Although this vessel had apparently been downed for some time, did it continue to have a life of its own―?
“Is that what I think it is?!”
Barney startled at the sound of the voice, his heart skipping several beats.
“Holy shit! You were right!” A thin wire of a man stood at the far edge of the dry lake bed, while a second, more pudgy fellow ― garbed in similar attire ― followed close behind. Both were dressed for an extended stay in the elements. Shovels, shorts, knapsacks and wide-brimmed hats indicated they were on foot, and part of an expedition.
Astonished, the two men encircled the craft, gawking in awe. The initial interlopers were soon joined by two more individuals who were obviously part of their party. By all clues, archaeologists, Barnett surmised.
A brief exchange confirmed the engineer’s deduction, but was abruptly interrupted by an explosion of military vehicles cresting the ridge. Before the impromptu group had a chance to investigate further, they were run off by official-looking men wearing official-looking stripes. Barney and the others were admonished never to speak of what they had seen to anyone, lest they be prepared to face egregious consequences.
Unable to vacate the weathered region quickly enough in his retreat to Socorro, the event shook Barnett to the core.
“Bullshit!” Fleck Danley bellowed.
“Wh― What?” Barney managed to stammer in his excited state.
“You heard me!” barked the short, stout rancher doubling as Barnett’s boss at the Salado Soil and Conservation District. “Spaceships? Little, green men, Barney?!
Have you lost your mind?”
“Fleck, you’ve never known me to lie. Why would I start now, and with somethin’ like this?”
The gruff herdsman pulled a brimmed hat off his moist brow, and began to pace. Dilapidated floorboards groaned beneath his mass. “Christ, Barney, that’s what worries me.” Turning to his best employee, “Pie Town’s a long way off, and you been travelin’ there a stretch. Anywhere along the PSA ain’t exactly a trip to paradise. You ain’t sufferin’ from heat stroke, are ya’?” Danley grabbed a canteen from a coat rack behind him, handing it to Barney.
“No, Fleck. This isn’t heat stroke. You know me.”
The squat cowboy began to pace again. Three years shy of 40 and the lines in his forehead read like a road map. On this particular day they were so pronounced, they were visible by airplane...at night.
“I’m tellin’ ya’ what I saw. This wasn’t a plane, and these creatures ― they weren’t human.“
Danley crushed his powerful fist into the creaking oak desk, his eyes bloodier than a freshly-cleaved slab of beef. “Enough, Barney! Enough! This is the last we speak of this! You understand?”
The two men eyed each other. They’d nurtured a mutual respect over the time they’d spent together, and even an event of this magnitude wouldn’t be enough of a catalyst for fisticuffs. Resolute, Barney strode from the office. He’d seen what he’d seen. He knew it. So did Fleck.
It’s the type of story one never recounts over meatloaf at a dinner party. Folks aren’t keen to playing second fiddle in the galactic hierarchy, and that’s what it would mean if humans were being visited by aliens. Anything that could reach "here" from "there" can do with us what it may, and we’d be powerless to defend ourselves.
Should they be benevolent, it means the end of the tenets we’ve built our society on. Who’s gonna listen to the president of the United States, when you’ve got access to a species 10,000 years more advanced? Whatever the commander in chief had to say would be so far behind the eight ball, he’d have the cue stick up his ass.
It was an uncomfortable position for those who believed they were in power. Barney realized this via his heated conversation with Fleck. Barnett comprehended anyone in control ― especially the government ― would not take kindly to information leaks on this matter. They’d made that clear at the crash site.
As such, the engineer kept a lid on his otherworldly profundity. Over the years, he would inform a few others of what he’d witnessed, but those he told were almost always long-time acquaintances.
Friends Vern and Jean Maltais ― the former an Air Force master sergeant ― would be included on that list. So would Harold and Martha Baca ― neighbors of Barney and his wife Ruth. A handful of others would be made privy to this secret Barney carried with him to his death in 1969.
Oddly, William Leed ― a man Barney had known for 15 minutes ― managed to coax details regarding his purported paranormal experience. Leed was a first lieutenant who engaged a prestigious officer in banter about UFOs one day at the Pentagon.
“Yes,” the official had stated, “we know all about that. If you really want to meet a man who touched one [a UFO], go see Barney Barnett in Socorro, New Mexico.”
It was never understood how this high-ranking officer was aware of the conservationist’s encounter with the unknown. The incident, nonetheless, inspired Leed to head to the Land of Enchantment as soon as he’d accumulated enough vacation time.
Driving from Ft. Hood, near central Texas, to Socorro, roughly central New Mexico, was a journey in 1967. Bill made the trek in decent time, but hadn’t been sure Barney would be home. Leed had never spoken to Barnett, and didn’t feel announcing his imminent arrival would warrant the best of receptions.
Hence, when Bill was greeted by an elderly man at his home in small town New Mexico, and invited in, he was pleasantly shocked.
Leed produced identification confirming he was who he asserted. The men spoke for 15 minutes. Less than half that interim was spent discussing Barney’s crash discovery. Barnett held firm to his story, asserting what he’d seen was in no way a fabrication.
Initially, Barney was hesitant to divulge details, since he’d been visited three times prior by government representatives warning him not to speak of his experience. When all was said and done, Leed failed to question Barnett regarding alien bodies. This may sound strange, but the first lieutenant hadn’t been aware of extraterrestrial corpses until Roswell grabbed public attention in the '80s.
Archaeologists working in the Plains during that time were tracked down by ufologists, and interviewed. One minute the prehistorians would affirm a story, only to be disproved the next, via incriminating letters they wrote, themselves. In the end, none claimed to have observed anything alien on the PSA that early July, 1947.
“That ain’t no part of no cow,” grumbled the livestock inspector, turning the enigmatic object over in his leathery hands.
“That ain’t no part of anything I ever seen,” added his counterpart.
Outside the greasy spoon at Datil’s Eagle Guest Ranch, the temperature dropped with the onset of night in New Mexico.
“Where’d ya’ find it?” queried the shorter of the two men.
“Down the road a piece in an arroyo leading onto the Plains,” Art responded.
As the three hombres mused over the object that resembled a petrified inner organ, twin salads the size of small gardens arrived, and the need for grub won out. “Sorry, podna'. We can’t help ya’.” The artifact was returned to the UFO investigator, and Art was again on his own.
Being a ufologist, since reading Frank Scully’s Behind the Flying Saucers in 1952, Art Campbell was the perfect candidate to probe an alleged UFO crash in 1947 New Mexico. Because Roswell remained salient, when envisioning a downed spacecraft with these details, a separate event around the same time enticed Campbell.
Art had been an investigator for NICAP ― National Investigations Committee on Aerial Phenomena ― and a prominent debunker of purported UFO contactee George Adamski.
Amidst an arroyo, on the Plains of San Augustin, Campbell hit pay dirt. Whatever it was had been exposed to severe heat, and now partially hidden beneath scrub brush. As Campbell described, it “looked like a pile of solidified chicken fat.” His discovery was roughly the size of an adult human fist ― burnt on one side, and melted on the other.
Art was acquainted with Colonel Philip Corso’s claims extraterrestrials were outfitted with artificial organs, to survive interstellar travel. Could he have uncovered an example of alien innards?
Campbell had the object analyzed by scientists adept at determining material compositions. It was concluded the artifact was primarily constructed of HDPE ― high density polyethylene. This substance is used in the production of Tupperware.
Curiously, a number of copper and gold wires ― far thinner than human hair ― were embedded in the find. These strands were oft connected to what appeared to be electronic components.
Allegedly having insider access to alien autopsies from previous crash sites, Philip Corso’s assertions fueled Art's fire. According to the colonel, brains of otherworldly travelers were laced with integrated circuits. Could Art have, in his possession, an extraterrestrial cerebrum?
Campbell's excavation of the Plains of San Augustin also revealed intriguing metal samples ― one, a bizarre honeycomb alloy, and a few others of ultra-light design. Art purports analysis of these metals revealed isotopes not previously found on Earth. Lab results, regarding these artifacts, is published in a 42 page report on his Website ― a link to which is featured below.
Conjecture runs deep here, but it’s the type of tale that’ll keep you awake at night, poring over it’s particulars in a squalid motel room in the middle of nowhere. A cask of rotgut, bedbugs keeping you company, and a Moon lucent enough to read by, good luck getting much sleep delving into this one.
SOURCES:
BOOKS:
Campbell, Art. (2013). Finding the UFO Crash at San Augustin: Isotopic Metal Analysis Not of This World. CreateSpace. ISBN: 9781491221945
ONLINE SOURCES:
THE INTEGRATRON
"During Air France Flight 3532 from Nice to London on 28 January 1994, I observed, with my crew, a UFO in broad daylight near Paris. […]
It seemed to be a huge, flying disk. It stabilized and stopped moving. […]
It was about 1,000 feet wide. […]
The most incredible aspect is that it became transparent, and disappeared in about 10 to 20 seconds."
― Air France captain Jean-Charles Duboc *
A fire hose doubling as a snake slithered across arid soil, a tarantula the size of a catcher’s mitt in its jaws. The Moon illuminated the desert as brightly as the midday Sun. Awake, Van Tassel pondered what had caused him to wrestle from slumber. Whatever it was had been of serious importance.
The ex-engineer and test pilot figured the time was somewhere near 2AM. The dogs hadn’t alerted him to anything unusual, and yet George knew someone in the night was headed his way.
From the phosphorescent shapes comprising the hypnagogic landscape, a figure emerged.
Through the fog of sleep, Van Tassel found it difficult to piece together what was taking place. Living in a removed locale, George wondered if the stranger was having car trouble and required assistance. It was then Van Tassel spied the UFO “glowing” in the distance as it hovered 10 feet above the desert floor.
The anthropomorphic entity approaching George stated, “My name is Solgonda. I would be pleased to show you our craft,” motioning to the radiating ship behind him.
Van Tassel awoke drenched in sweat. He’d had a nightmare. It was a vision actually, one of the visitors from space had implanted within his capable cranium.
Previously an employee of Douglas Aircraft, Hughes Aviation and Lockheed, George had spent an ample portion of his life repairing, engineering and testing planes. He wasn’t the type to believe in beings from other planets, and yet here they were ― extraterrestrials making contact with him in the California desert. Not only had an exchange occurred, but George himself had toured an alien spacecraft.
The year was 1953, and George Van Tassel had moved his family from Santa Monica, California, to a desert region in the Golden State known as Giant Rock. Besides desolation, there was nothing surrounding one of the world’s largest freestanding boulders. The massive stone didn’t even exist in a legitimate town.
Still, George felt compelled to make the migration. His family had vacationed in these parts for years. In addition, his friend Frank Critzer had excavated a dwelling beneath the seven story tall boulder that served as the perfect habitat.
Due to the positioning of the rock, the temperature of the home never climbed above 80 degrees in the summer, and never dipped below 55 during the winter. The monumental stone shaded the house during the warmer season, thereby collecting heat to warm the underground home in colder months.
Thanks to agreeable temperatures, George and his family slept outdoors three quarters of the year. It was during this interim Van Tassel experienced his initial encounter with interplanetary travelers, and was led into a “butter colored” luminance beneath a floating UFO.
Through this light, he was allegedly transported into the craft and shown technology well in advance of that known to humanity. Those piloting the vessel informed George he had been appointed to disseminate a communique of cosmic harmony from the fraternal Universe.
The visit inspired Van Tassel to author and circulate The Proceedings of the College of Universal Wisdom ― a journal promulgating messages inculcated by George’s alien emissaries.
Believers of the former pilot’s experiences began sending contributions, so Van Tassel could build an edifice in the desert. George was apprised by his extraterrestrial confidants it was imperative he erect what became known as the Integratron ― a dome-shaped building made completely of wood. According to tale, when finished, this device would regenerate those who entered it, slowing the aging process, and turning back the years.
The structure now stands 38 feet tall, at its peak, and 55 feet in diameter, at its base. Even though the dwelling was erected without metal nails, it’s survived the elements for over half a century.
Although the contraption appears complete, it’s reported Van Tassel died before he could finish it. Since he departed without bequeathing blueprints, no one is certain what’s required to bring the edifice to culmination. Hence, we may never know if the building is capable of extending human life.
In addition to its revitalizing powers, George purported the Integratron was a time machine, able to access events throughout history.
But the Integratron wasn’t the only impact George made. Between 1953 and 1977, Van Tassel coordinated the Giant Rock Spacecraft Conventions. During these retreats, those in attendance were provided the latest news from the extraterrestrial forefront.
Van Tassel also rebuilt Giant Rock Airport ― a landing strip constructed by his friend Frank Critzer ― adjacent the 5,800 square foot boulder of the same name. At the base of Giant Rock stood George’s diner ― The Come On Inn ― where visitors could grab a home-cooked meal.
In time, Giant Rock, the Integratron and the UFO conventions lost their allure. With the waning of support, so too came an abatement of funding for George’s personal quest. As such, construction of the famous domed building ― which continued for 18 years ― subsided. In 1978, less than a year following the final Spacecraft Convention, George would be dead ― victim of a heart attack in Santa Ana, California.
Cost of legal obligations, and maintenance of the building, forced Eva Van Tassel ― George’s widow ― to sell the property. Plans were made to transform the Integratron into a disco. Eventually, however, it was determined people would be hesitant to travel to the middle of nowhere to listen to a recording of Andy Gibb squealing in pants eight sizes too small.
As such, the structure was purchased by a group of Van Tassel devotees and locked up until 1987.
Currently, Joanne, Nancy and Patty Karl ― siblings ― own the pseudo-famous edifice, and reside on the property.
Renovation of the weakened boards comprising the building have given it new life. Until the sisters figure out how to complete Van Tassel’s monument to the metaphysical, they’re happy to offer tours for a fee. The construction can also be rented out for special events.
Perhaps the most intriguing use of the Integratron are the sound baths provided visitors. For a price, one can hang out in a comfy chair, while crystal bowls around them resonate a spooky serenade. Due to the fact a person can whisper anywhere in the Integratron, and be heard elsewhere in the building, acoustics of this structure were deemed perfect for this type of transcendental experience.
A cleansing of the soul? An aligning of chakras? Whatever they are, sound baths seem a great modality for accumulating money.
The Integratron can be a wonderful venue for personal introspection. Perhaps it’s still an opportune vantage point from which to observe otherworldly craft. One may never know, unless one fires up the ol’ family truckster and blazes a trail into the Mojave Desert.
In 2000, a psychic reading at Giant Rock presaged one of two ancient Hopi myths would become reality. According to the lore of the aforementioned tribe, if the boulder cracked in half, it signified a disappointed Earth Mother who would refuse to answer humankind’s prayers. If a less substantial portion of the rock should fissure, however, man’s pleas would be accepted, and a new epoch would emerge.
Although Giant Rock had remained steadfast for eons, approximately one-third of the natural monument cracked and fell away the following morning.
SOURCES:
ONLINE SOURCES:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Integratron
DAUPHIN
"Quite an experience to live in fear, isn't it? That's what it is to be a slave."
― Blade Runner *
"Wow! You really like to work," exclaimed the cookie-cutter manager. You've never missed a shift," the woman smiled, delusional, myopic and brainwashed to the point of extreme mental illness.
I grinned, asking myself, "Did this indoctrinated idiot really believe I wanted to work? Could she seriously be that insane she thought I hungered to be enslaved?!
Of course I wasn't desirous of working. I wanted to go to fuckin' "Florida." In order to do so, unfortunately I needed money.
Hence, the last thing I wished to do was enslave myself. Because we all resided in a concentration camp for a society, however, that's what I was forced to do, in order to pursue my passions.
This woman was so severely brainwashed, though, she actually believed I wanted to work! Didn't she realize if I didn't have to imprison myself, in order to move to another "state," she'd never see me again?
At my "job," I collected recently used cutlery and dishes, from people I'd never met, in order to survive. Proof I didn't want to work was the fact this wasn't what I did in my spare time. I didn't wander into homes, gather folks' soiled plates, dispose of their half-eaten dinners, and leave.
This brainwashed babe couldn't see that, due to malware written into the hard drive known as her brain. Through intensive inculcation, she'd been lied to that work was just that; work, even though everything about it reeked of slavery. It had been beaten into her skull "work" was good, and those who didn't do it were lazy.
She'd swallowed a 20,000 guy bukkake load of poisoned jizz that she now had a "career," even though what she was doing at her "job" she never did in her "free" time. Once she stopped being paid to do whatever the fuck she was doing, while enslaved, she wouldn't once do it again.
The same went for me, and most everybody else. Such is definitive proof nobody wants to "work." Such is ironclad evidence we're all slaves, our lives forfeited, due to fear this system will crush us, if we don't imprison ourselves.
It's known as Dauphin, and in the 1970s, this Canadian town underwent an experiment forgotten by most. Citizens of this city were provided a guaranteed annual income ― coined Mincome; a combination of the words "minimum" and "income."
Those who worked, but were still below the poverty line, were provided supplemental cash to ensure their basic needs were met.
Nowadays, a similar movement advocated is called universal basic income (UBI). UBI is a system in which everyone is paid a base amount, regardless of whether or not everyone works. This income ensures nobody is destitute, and thus eradicates "poverty."
Don't have a job? No problem. With UBI, nobody will starve, nor be rendered homeless. One's fundamental bills are covered under this plan; i.e. everyone has enough to pay their rent, clothe themselves and keep food on the table.
People can continue to work, and thereby increase their income, but through UBI, they're guaranteed a certain amount with which to exist every month.
Universal basic income was proposed by late "economist" Milton Friedman in 1962, when he wrote:
"We should replace the ragtag of specific welfare programs with a single comprehensive program of income supplements in cash."
― Milton Friedman **
**
Friedman referred to this plan as negative income tax.
In 1967, Martin Luther King, Jr. trumpeted:
"[…] seems to me that the civil rights movement must now begin to organize for the guaranteed annual income."
― Martin Luther King, Jr. ***
*** Ibid.
Even Tricky Dick ― Dick Nixon ― got in on the act in 1968, when he suggested 8,500 "Americans" take place in a basic income experiment.
For a number of reasons, though, this concept was forgotten over the years, and attempts to implement it, discontinued.
Along came Dauphin, Manitoba, in 1974, and things seemed to change. Under Mincome, citizens were guaranteed 50 cents extra for each dollar they accumulated, when enslaved ― uh, working ― until their income exceeded the poverty line. The unemployed were provided enough to ensure their compensatory status reached this same level.
Though many posit an assured basic income would cause the populace to become lazy, results from Dauphin disproved such. For the five years Mincome was issued, the population flourished. Hospitalization rates in Dauphin decreased; domestic violence and mental health dilemmas declined; moreover, people continued enslaving themselves ― uh, working.
Supporters of universal basic income — like Rutger Bregman and Scott Santens — wish to provide people more "free" time to pursue their passions. How many folks, who could have cured catastrophic diseases, died penniless in the streets?
I'm not prescient. I can, however, offer speculation ― based on history ― in regard to a "secured income," and what may ensue, if one was implemented.
The term universal basic income is invalid. This Universe is an immense empyrean ocean, in which the Earth ― a mere atom of such ― resides. Thus, how do we know what types of income ― if any ― are employed throughout this Universe. To believe the microscopic fleck we call home is "universal" ― or this Universe ― is extremely arrogant.
Seems like semantics, but until we realize we aren't so "special" we're universal, we'll keep engaging in activities of extreme detriment. Until we comprehend we're one of multitudinous species that could be eradicated, we'll fallaciously surmise it doesn't matter how we conduct ourselves, because we'll exist forever.
Hence, let's refer to this proposition as basic income (BI), as opposed to universal basic income.
If BI were enacted, it would provide the populace more time to educate themselves; more time to realize they're slaves. With a basic income, the population may plausibly comprehend they're being slaughtered by the very government they believe is protecting them.
After a substantial portion of the proletariat screams for BI, bureaucracy may reluctantly institute it, in order to calm the masses. That said, government would almost assuredly ― probably covertly ― mandate an additional income tax, an increased income tax, or some other tax that would make the basic income null and void.
Why?
If you're reading this book, you probably comprehend government wants you constantly imprisoned at your "job," or "career." By doing so, you don't have time to recognize you're a slave. This is imperative, when it comes to keeping you imprisoned.
If you have time to understand you're an incarcerate, there's a strong chance you'll attempt to escape. Once you see other captives liberating themselves, you'll almost assuredly do the same.
Such is exactly what authority fears.
As a result, they'll do anything to keep you ignorant of the truth. If they don't, they realize it means their assured demise. They've already thrown an onslaught of lies, propaganda and subterfuge at you ― you're currently drowning in it ― in order to ensure you're asleep.
Government will continue treating you like mushrooms ― feeding you shit, and keeping you in the dark. Such a modus operandi is threatened by a basic income, as it would no longer be mandatory for people to work, in order to survive. Hence, the populace would have "free" time to hop on the Internet, and or read, and discover authority has been enslaving them all along.
Again, this is exactly the situation those "in charge" fear most ― an awakening of the plebians. It ensures decimation of control.
"The in group will do all it can to stay in power. And that's what you gotta keep in mind. They'll use the army, and navy, and lies or whatever they have to use to keep in power. They're not about to give it up, 'cause they don't know of any other system that will perpetuate their kind."
― Jacque Fresco ****
****
BI continues to work within this order that's designed to kill us. BI therefore not only perpetuates the monetary system, it tacitly informs those subjugating us, "We support your money, and continue recognizing it as having value." This, even though I, and countless others, have proven money has no intrinsic worth.
As a result, we leave the demons "in charge." Considering they've brought us to the brink of nuclear decimation, this is a terrible idea. Given they've ensured nearly half of us will contract cancer, continuing to follow them is a monumentally shitty notion. Because they've ordered us to kill our own kind ― and we've acquiesced, making war ubiquitous on this planet ― our adherence to them is a path to our annihilation.
The late "economist" Milton Friedman suggested a guaranteed basic income, and then referred to it as a negative income tax.
What the fuck―?!
If the income tax is bad, get rid of it. Why the hell would you create a decree to counter a mandate that didn't work? Just expunge the original directive, and be done with it.
If you don't, you'll end up continually producing injunctions to offset the initial problem order. You'll implement numerous other mandates with which to rectify those. You'll perpetually produce useless shit at best; cataclysmically perfidious shit, at worst. We're talkin' extraneous, and or nocuous crap that will end our species ― like the disorder we have now.
"We must do away with the absolutely specious notion that everybody has to earn a living. It is a fact today that one in ten thousand of us can make a technological breakthrough capable of supporting all the rest. The youth of today are absolutely right in recognizing this nonsense of earning a living.
We keep inventing jobs because of this false idea that everybody has to be employed at some kind of drudgery because, according to Malthusian-Darwinian theory, he must justify his right to exist. So we have inspectors of inspectors of inspectors and people making instruments for inspectors to inspect inspectors.
The true business of people should be to […] think about what they were thinking about before somebody came along and told them they had to earn a living."
― R. Buckminster Fuller *****
***** https://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/Buckminster_Fuller
Creating a negative income tax is akin to MAD ― mutually assured destruction. This insane premise proclaims: Because your "country" has enough nukes to exterminate humanity on Earth 10,000 times over, and my "country" has the ability to do so 15,000 times, we won't use these weapons.
That's fuckin' psychotic! If you're not gonna use the fuckers, then why have 'em in the first place?!
The answer ― when it comes to nuclear weapons, as well as income tax ― is because they haven't been created to protect the populace; they've been developed to enslave it. We, the people, are constantly in fear of both, and those we've placed "in power" use this anxiety to control us.
Unless you destroy the monetary system, it will destroy you.
It's imperative we eradicate the malware in our brains, and rewrite a program based upon truth. We've been falsely indoctrinated to believe money equates to wealth.
In reality, wealth has no relation to how many useless pieces of paper you can collect. It is relevant to how you perceive affluence in your inchoate state, before this skull scrubbing began.
Thus, having enough to drink and eat denotes wealth. Plenty of fresh air to breathe also represents prosperity. Perpetual shelter is an indicator of abundance.
But let's delve further. Without the ability to be who you are, your inner essence ― be it a soul, or whatever you'd like to call it ― dies.
Your catalyst for living vaporizes.
Hence, aren't you rich ― to yourself, and the rest of the species ― if you're able to pursue your passions? That is, as long as your cravings aren't killing, rape, or some other undertaking pernicious to humanity.
The definitive answer is, "Yes!" Many of those allowed to follow their dreams will develop ideologies and inventions imperative to the survival of our race. That's wealth!
Doesn't a panacea for all types of cancers blow the living shit out of a pile of naturally worthless pieces of paper, known as cash?
If you've got cancer ― which 40% of us do ― you're fuckin'-A right! Don't matta' how much bling you sling, if you're infected and nobody has a cure.
Hence, knowledge is wealth. Without the ability to learn and apply erudition, we're fuckin' broke!
If you don't have a working method to migrate our species off this planet, when this Universe demolishes Earth, it doesn't matter if you've got 10 BMWs, or "own" BMW. You're more fucked than George Bush Sr. at a "Let's–Sleep–With–Inbred-Old–Freaks" convention!
Monetarily, I have nothing. That said, I know people who do, but are clueless to reality ― unknowingly existing in a prison.
As a result, they don't do anything to liberate themselves. On the other hand, I'm doing everything possible to provide our species freedom.
Would you rather have a race of ignorant slaves, who don't know they're imprisoned, or erudite individuals with a means to escape? Which do you think makes our species more wealthy?
Although BI is not eradication of the monetary system, perhaps it will provide the population time necessary to realize money must be eliminated.
Maybe the end of currency of any kind would be too much for the populace to mentally contend with, right now. Perhaps a steady weaning from it is the approach easiest to digest.
Of one fact I am certain: The last thing government will do is relinquish control over us. Authority would rather see us dead, than allow us to be free.
SOURCES:
ONLINE SOURCES:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Basic_income
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mincome
https://www.reddit.com/r/BasicIncome/
POSTHUMOUS
"The illusion of freedom will continue as long as it's profitable to continue the illusion. At the point where the illusion becomes too expensive to maintain, they will just take down the scenery, they will pull back the curtains, they will move the tables and chairs out of the way, and you will see the brick wall at the back of the theater."
― Frank Zappa *
We've become delusional; speaking, but saying nothing. Existing in a "communication age" in which we're unable to communicate. Certain we're superior, yet being the only species on Earth currently destroying itself.
As a breed on this planet, we feel we're unparalleled. Such stated, we're the sole genus on the verge of decimating nearly every other species here…including us.
From an impartial eye, humanity isn't superlative at all, but a nasty plague, at this point. Such doesn't have to be. Look at the technology we've developed, even under this horrific system enslaving us. We're capable of amazing things.
Instead, we choose to follow "leaders," who are nothing more than liars, selling us a bill of rotten goods. Rather than using our intellect to take us to the next Universe, we allow these "commanders" to coerce us into creating our own demise, and falling in love with our self-inflicted genocide.
When was the last time you saw a popular video game based upon pure space exploration, as opposed to murder? We're brainwashed to believe that killing each other is more exciting than uncovering the mysteries of this Multiverse.
"[P]eople watch the news — say CNN, Fox or NBC — and they get to a point where they can't take it anymore. And then they just tune out. It's too confusing; too violent; too negative. You start to wonder, "Why put that into my life?" […]
It's a loss of control; a sense that the vehicle you thought you were driving is actually being driven by someone else.
It comes with this sense of confusion about the world, in which the politics around us don't seem to make any sense, and there doesn't seem to be any way out.
[T]his is by design. The confusion, the hopelessness, is not an accident. Maybe once, long ago, we might have believed that the political establishment was working for the people. Corrupt? Sure, but more or less something that worked on behalf of the public.
It's what our society still tells us every day. That ever so slowly we're moving toward greater inclusion; greater democracy. Right? Well, maybe not.
The confusion and hopelessness are no accident, and there is a reason for this."
― Richard Dolan **
**
People don't steal because they're naturally bad. They steal because they're thrust into a system that demands thievery. In this system, if you don't steal, you die. Thus, the problem isn't the people; it's the system.
In a logical paradigm, you don't have to pay, in order to survive.
In a rational society, there's no tariff on your life. The ideology itself, let alone the implementation of such, screams mental illness! Yet, you consider this "healthy" and "normal."
In a sensible civilization, you're simply able to be, which is the way things occur naturally. Think you know better than nature? Well, just keep on opposing it, and see how far that gets you. It's already brought you to the brink of nuclear Armageddon, hasn't it?
And if you don't believe this system forces people to steal, consider the fact food, shelter and water were freely available to everyone intrinsically. Since the implementation of this order incarcerating us, these basic necessities have been stolen, and we're now forced to pay for them. If we refuse to pay, these essentials to existence are denied us, and we're murdered, as a result.
Don't lie to yourselves. Your kids will never escape Earth by following rules of a system designed to destroy them. Why am I even appealing to you? If you cared about your kids, you wouldn't have had them in the first place.
If you love an innocent life, you don't bring it into a society in which every member exists under constant threat of nuclear annihilation. You do bring that innocent life into such a pernicious paradigm because you're ignorant of reality, attempting to conform, or both.
Again, we exist in an era in which so many speak, but so few say anything. Rather than talk, I write. Complacency, and thus complicity, to our demise is no option for me.
Whether it matters or not, I'm incapable of being part of the dark. I have to be part of the light.
Perhaps the information I provide will be viewed posthumously ― after I depart my physical form; i.e. die. Perhaps it won't. I just need to provide it.
Maybe somebody will geocache my work ― which is your work, as well, since ownership is an illusion ― and people will awaken to reality more rapidly than they currently are.
Perhaps you'll find this tome at a used book fare, and pick it up for pennies.
Maybe you'll uncover this publication wedged beneath the jamb to Room 641A ― as government keeps this door from slamming shut, while relocating its conduit to your innermost thoughts.
The latter will never happen, but then again, you follow proven psychopaths over a cliff of destruction, so perhaps anything's possible.
I write about whatever I feel, at this point. If you don't enjoy the topics herein, go fuck yourselves. After all, you're fucking everybody on this planet ― including you ― by choosing to remain asleep, and deciding to do nothing.
The preceding blog was written by Hugh Mungus. Feel free to contact the author directly here on Steemit, or via his personal E-mail address: longlivenuno@aol.com