I was wondering what, if anything, would be appropriate to post today, 236 years after a group of men decided they'd had enough of tyranny. Wandering around YouTube took me down a very dark path, where videos of:
1) a college kid being beaten unconscious by three cops for nothing more than skipping down a street
2) a man sitting in front of his house being tased and then jumped by ten cops
3) a cop who broke an 84 year old man's neck for "touching" him
4) a woman who was tasered for not signing a traffic ticket
5) a group of poor people who have squatted on an abandoned military base ("Slab City" in Imperial county Calif.) who were confronted by police for not having "permits"
. . . and several more showed me that we have come full circle from tyranny to tyranny. Only this time it's the kind we may have much more trouble getting out from under than what a mere King back in England could impose on us. Now we have drones that can not only spy on us from several hundred feet in the sky above us, but take us out if our Usurper-in-Chief decides we are "enemy combatants". This is a decision that he alone may make, and is now legally justified in doing so, thanks to his unchallenged abuse of power via executive orders, statutes, public laws, policies and procedures.
So what did we fight for, some nebulous idea that we would eventually be a free people in the country our forefathers built?
Ann Coulter gave a little reprieve in her article today posted to World Net Daily:
http://www.wnd.com/2012/07/on-july-4-remember-we-are-not-french/
However, in reading a comment I was reminded that in fact we never did actually get out from under British rule, as most of us were taught in schools. All one has to do is read the works of The Informer or those of his fellow researcher James Montgomery (much of which was hosted at a now defunct website atgpress.com but can be found in bits and pieces here and there if you but look).
Thankfully a website for Montgomery's published work - "The United States Is Still A British Colony" - still exists. It can be found here:
http://www.civil-liberties.com/books/
Happy "Independence" Day . . . or not.
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
Friday, May 25, 2012
Memorial. To whom? Sad patsies and dupes conscripted to do the bidding of global corporate masters?
Does anybody really understand what, or more precisely, WHO has been behind every war since 1850 (or thereabouts)? Does anybody know what room in the Waldorf Astoria every one of those wars has been directed from? By the same "person"?
Ever wonder why Lichtenstein has banks that will set up an account IN PERPETUITY? Who would need such an account?
Is the image atop the cliff one of a Hungarian lion holding up its lyin' king, or an Amos 'n Andy Raggedy doll - minus Anne (an image that probably has Disney spinning in his grave)?
Is the game the Big Zero's playing with our Vegas-style economy Baccarat, Russo-Hungarian roulette, or just plain ol' alley cat craps (a la Fritz)?
Pay close attention, Seekers. The dates and times of postings have a pattern. YOU discern them.
Pay VERY close attention.
Does anybody really understand what, or more precisely, WHO has been behind every war since 1850 (or thereabouts)? Does anybody know what room in the Waldorf Astoria every one of those wars has been directed from? By the same "person"?
Ever wonder why Lichtenstein has banks that will set up an account IN PERPETUITY? Who would need such an account?
Is the image atop the cliff one of a Hungarian lion holding up its lyin' king, or an Amos 'n Andy Raggedy doll - minus Anne (an image that probably has Disney spinning in his grave)?
Is the game the Big Zero's playing with our Vegas-style economy Baccarat, Russo-Hungarian roulette, or just plain ol' alley cat craps (a la Fritz)?
Pay close attention, Seekers. The dates and times of postings have a pattern. YOU discern them.
Pay VERY close attention.
Sunday, May 20, 2012
Now, on to Important Business.
ANNOUNCING (during the eclipse, appropriately): Season 2 of "Pocyclypse Cafe (that's with an accent aigu, in case you're wondering - (en Francais, not Lakota) can't figure out how to do it in this stupid composer).
Otherwise known as Apocalypse Cafe and sometimes the "Pocky Lips" Cafe.
Reservations for up to 2 - 3 couples this season available. More if things really get out of hand with the clamoring crowds
Location: Rim country, Arizona.
Proprietor & chief bottle washer: Dr. D
Chef Amazing/Extraordinaire, sometime waiter, general mangler of words/ideas and philosopher generale: Corbin
Season Opening: When (if?) Corbin gets here.
Menu: that's the key - you are subjected to whatever we feel at the time (with special consideration given to certain medical conditions).
Venue: Gila County, REPUBLIC of Arizona - written and signed/sealed in YOUR blood legal waiver for damages and accidental poisoning or death required. A medical center is a mere 16 miles, or 30 minute ambulance ride away.
Cost: $5,000.00 Federal Reserve Notes per individual (not person) or real money discount of 3 Gold Canadian Maple Leaf 1 oz. gold coins (Kruggerand accepted as substitute) - $8,000.00 FRN's or 5 Maple Leaf/Kruggerand gold coin per couple (not persons). Nonrefundable reservation of $2,000.00 or 1 oz. gold Maple Leaf/Kruggerand applies, upon application. Please submit choice of music genre, otherwise you will be subjected to Corbin's choice - a rather eclectic mix of classical, opera, offbeat rock, obscure jazz and down home bluegrass, with some really strange German acapella thrown in for good measure.
A once in a lifetime, ultimate, American End Times, pre-Apocalyptic experience for the discerning adventurer. Live as the "almost homeless" do for 5 or more hours in the Rim country of Arizona. Accommodation in the front seat - single occupancy - or the bed - double occupancy - of Corbin's truck available for overnighters. Free breakfast if you stay overnight. Amazing stellar views and training in neighborhood watch patrol ( a la George Zimmerman) available as extra package. Advanced training in general End Times survival or pseudo highbrow homelessness by special arrangement.
Reasonably intelligent repartee like you can't believe, on almost ANY subject - guaranteed - during your stay (Reimann geometry, vector analysis and other such nonsense specifically excluded). Topical discussions may range from Abraham Maslow's hierarchy of needs to Zeta Reticulan influence on U.S. military policy in international relations.
Contact: respondez, si'l vous plait. Maintenant. In other words if you are reading this, I will take your non-responce as inexcusably rude.
We reserve the right (and rite) to exclude anybody on our whim or fancy. Terms and conditions subject to morphing without notice.
We are an equal opportunity offender.
ANNOUNCING (during the eclipse, appropriately): Season 2 of "Pocyclypse Cafe (that's with an accent aigu, in case you're wondering - (en Francais, not Lakota) can't figure out how to do it in this stupid composer).
Otherwise known as Apocalypse Cafe and sometimes the "Pocky Lips" Cafe.
Reservations for up to 2 - 3 couples this season available. More if things really get out of hand with the clamoring crowds
Location: Rim country, Arizona.
Proprietor & chief bottle washer: Dr. D
Chef Amazing/Extraordinaire, sometime waiter, general mangler of words/ideas and philosopher generale: Corbin
Season Opening: When (if?) Corbin gets here.
Menu: that's the key - you are subjected to whatever we feel at the time (with special consideration given to certain medical conditions).
Venue: Gila County, REPUBLIC of Arizona - written and signed/sealed in YOUR blood legal waiver for damages and accidental poisoning or death required. A medical center is a mere 16 miles, or 30 minute ambulance ride away.
Cost: $5,000.00 Federal Reserve Notes per individual (not person) or real money discount of 3 Gold Canadian Maple Leaf 1 oz. gold coins (Kruggerand accepted as substitute) - $8,000.00 FRN's or 5 Maple Leaf/Kruggerand gold coin per couple (not persons). Nonrefundable reservation of $2,000.00 or 1 oz. gold Maple Leaf/Kruggerand applies, upon application. Please submit choice of music genre, otherwise you will be subjected to Corbin's choice - a rather eclectic mix of classical, opera, offbeat rock, obscure jazz and down home bluegrass, with some really strange German acapella thrown in for good measure.
A once in a lifetime, ultimate, American End Times, pre-Apocalyptic experience for the discerning adventurer. Live as the "almost homeless" do for 5 or more hours in the Rim country of Arizona. Accommodation in the front seat - single occupancy - or the bed - double occupancy - of Corbin's truck available for overnighters. Free breakfast if you stay overnight. Amazing stellar views and training in neighborhood watch patrol ( a la George Zimmerman) available as extra package. Advanced training in general End Times survival or pseudo highbrow homelessness by special arrangement.
Reasonably intelligent repartee like you can't believe, on almost ANY subject - guaranteed - during your stay (Reimann geometry, vector analysis and other such nonsense specifically excluded). Topical discussions may range from Abraham Maslow's hierarchy of needs to Zeta Reticulan influence on U.S. military policy in international relations.
Contact: respondez, si'l vous plait. Maintenant. In other words if you are reading this, I will take your non-responce as inexcusably rude.
We reserve the right (and rite) to exclude anybody on our whim or fancy. Terms and conditions subject to morphing without notice.
We are an equal opportunity offender.
Thursday, May 17, 2012
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
On Richard Dawkins
He's not a real scientist, you know. A REAL scientist would be willing to actually LOOK at the data presented by other scientists, no matter how odd or unconforming to the "standard" models and theories. They are, after all, still only models and theories.
No, this man is merely a stuffed shirt of the ilk I used to work with in so-called academia - a mere politician in a lab coat who can do no more than attempt character assassination if someone presents information having to do with anything outside his own direct experience, or the "acceptable" reality. He is nothing more than another "yes man" in a long line of government supported stooges who will some day wake up on the other side - and be pleasantly surprised that he was so wrong about so many things.
No, this man is merely a stuffed shirt of the ilk I used to work with in so-called academia - a mere politician in a lab coat who can do no more than attempt character assassination if someone presents information having to do with anything outside his own direct experience, or the "acceptable" reality. He is nothing more than another "yes man" in a long line of government supported stooges who will some day wake up on the other side - and be pleasantly surprised that he was so wrong about so many things.
Sunday, December 18, 2011
Spirit-night
Forty one years ago tonight
I committed my soul to peace
Forty one years of strife and life
have committed my path to war.
What was that calling my heart and mind
to light across distant shores?
I remember it well, that night.
About a dozen of us, young and old, stood quietly waiting upon an old priest to pray the ritual he'd intoned perhaps a thousand times before. This man who bore the name of an Irish Patriot of several decades before, who, in a manner similar to his namesake, would be gunned down a few years later outside his own church doors, prepared himself against the unseen forces gathering to thwart the plans of these few innocents.
It was a night like no other. No mere "Santana" winds blew, this was the flight of the Holy Spirit across the land. We, each of us newborn babes in old skins, looked at each other and recognized what the winds suggested as they moaned and then howled through the doors - and KNEW that it was not the usual Southern California storm typical of Winter. As we donned the white garments signifying a freshly forgiven soul, and repeated the formula which would grant us the much-needed cleansing, we prepared for decades-long battles, though we did not comprehend it at the time. But Something inside us knew . . .
Now my Saints have left me. Mystics have traded their places for pretenders. Betty Whipple, holy mother, devoted wife, my Godmother and spiritual teacher to many, knows the Presence directly, as does Father Michael Collins, and Father Aloysius Ellacuria. Holy people, one and all, and many others who were friends and family are now lost to time and circumstance. Only charlatans remain to dupe and deceive the pure of heart who seek Truth in sincerity.
I stand alone of my kind, waiting the hour of the beast, who we jokingly called "charlie" with a small "c". Waiting for the abomination to make his appearance in the Temple, foretold so long ago. Waiting for the ultimate war - the REAL "War to end all Wars". I feel the gathering of spirits on the Other Side, slowly churning the ethers, the impending Doom. Skirmishes there are reflected here in the physical. Wars, and rumors of wars, are commonplace. Hardly anyone remembers the Old Code anymore.
But we few, who stand ready, wait with the patience of Job for the final onslaught. We few, unknown to each other except in spirit, scattered across the globe, which some call Home and others know as a brief waystation, a battlefield in the aeons-long struggle upward, we who were chosen, not merely called, wait for the single unmistakable clarion.
It is almost upon us . . . do you hear it? It blows on the Winter Wind, when the night is long and dark. Have faith, you few. Our Time is almost at hand.
I committed my soul to peace
Forty one years of strife and life
have committed my path to war.
What was that calling my heart and mind
to light across distant shores?
I remember it well, that night.
About a dozen of us, young and old, stood quietly waiting upon an old priest to pray the ritual he'd intoned perhaps a thousand times before. This man who bore the name of an Irish Patriot of several decades before, who, in a manner similar to his namesake, would be gunned down a few years later outside his own church doors, prepared himself against the unseen forces gathering to thwart the plans of these few innocents.
It was a night like no other. No mere "Santana" winds blew, this was the flight of the Holy Spirit across the land. We, each of us newborn babes in old skins, looked at each other and recognized what the winds suggested as they moaned and then howled through the doors - and KNEW that it was not the usual Southern California storm typical of Winter. As we donned the white garments signifying a freshly forgiven soul, and repeated the formula which would grant us the much-needed cleansing, we prepared for decades-long battles, though we did not comprehend it at the time. But Something inside us knew . . .
Now my Saints have left me. Mystics have traded their places for pretenders. Betty Whipple, holy mother, devoted wife, my Godmother and spiritual teacher to many, knows the Presence directly, as does Father Michael Collins, and Father Aloysius Ellacuria. Holy people, one and all, and many others who were friends and family are now lost to time and circumstance. Only charlatans remain to dupe and deceive the pure of heart who seek Truth in sincerity.
I stand alone of my kind, waiting the hour of the beast, who we jokingly called "charlie" with a small "c". Waiting for the abomination to make his appearance in the Temple, foretold so long ago. Waiting for the ultimate war - the REAL "War to end all Wars". I feel the gathering of spirits on the Other Side, slowly churning the ethers, the impending Doom. Skirmishes there are reflected here in the physical. Wars, and rumors of wars, are commonplace. Hardly anyone remembers the Old Code anymore.
But we few, who stand ready, wait with the patience of Job for the final onslaught. We few, unknown to each other except in spirit, scattered across the globe, which some call Home and others know as a brief waystation, a battlefield in the aeons-long struggle upward, we who were chosen, not merely called, wait for the single unmistakable clarion.
It is almost upon us . . . do you hear it? It blows on the Winter Wind, when the night is long and dark. Have faith, you few. Our Time is almost at hand.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
The facts of life: an open letter to my son Jeramiah Liles (Part 1)
First, happy birthday.
I've wanted to say that to you for many years but, due to circumstances which will become clear, I was unable to until now. I hope each one has been a happy event in your life. I also hope that each day in between has been everything your true self, your spirit, your essence, needed for you to become who you were meant to be in this life. I trust that your angels have watched over you, guided you and that you have and always will listen to them and that others around you who have forgotten their true origins have not had such influence to cause you to forget yours.
I've wanted to say that to you for many years but, due to circumstances which will become clear, I was unable to until now. I hope each one has been a happy event in your life. I also hope that each day in between has been everything your true self, your spirit, your essence, needed for you to become who you were meant to be in this life. I trust that your angels have watched over you, guided you and that you have and always will listen to them and that others around you who have forgotten their true origins have not had such influence to cause you to forget yours.
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