In speaking with Mescaline Franklin, man of a critical mind, the subject or our management, how we are herded into our varied folds by gaslight at the behest of unseen and unknown fiends, he broached the subject of Systemic Self Awareness. My comrade in bad thought and social dissent posited that though the fiends, both arch and minor, ever seem to get their way, that “They aren’t that good. They will mess up and things will fall apart. If it is true that they are smarter than us, as you say—which I do not agree with—what is the mechanism? How does the false polarity, the deception of both sides of this zombie nation brain, play into it? It is obvious to us that The System is now self aware.”
What follows is a paraphrase and annotated version of my response by phone, which seemed to please my rampant-minded friend.
As I listen to Khalil Gibran’s poetry, it occurs that Aristotle was right, that the historian does not understand the life of mankind, or even the life of a man, that this understanding is possessed by The Poet, he who reflects, rather than he who is dedicated to understand. The honest befuddlement of Herodotus, who relates rather than discards accounts he suspects are false, is an echo of this, a realization that the historian’s subject casts a spell upon him.
As a biographer, I have experienced this, and as a historian too, a growing empathy with the subject of inquiry that slowly and surely recruits the investigator as its advocate. As a novelist, I find myself coming to like even the bad guys, and as a hater of cats living with a cat man, discover that in the process of caring for his cats when he is away, that I become their advocate and influence him on their behalf.
Last night, as his sons were ignoring the hungry cats and I was feeding them and conversing as they purred at my feet, the oldest son stopped in amazement and overheard, “You terrible little creature keep your paws to yourself...felonious felines of reprobation—back!”
The son, “I’m going to tell Dad that you are disrespecting his cats; a cat slave should show more respect for his masters!”
We laughed at the truth of it, that I am devoting my relatively high intelligence to the care of evil little things who would, rather than feed me, attack, torture and eat me if I were in their power.
It is, as Uncle Ted first described, a fact that the systems of social control we live under has become a self aware aggregate of thirsts and hungers, lusts and yearnings that pulsate in a magnitude of terrible scale. Much as Doctor Frankenstein lost control of his creation, man betrayed God in His Garden, and the humanity blessed by Prometheus sided with his eternal jailer, the systems of social control make demands and effect disappointments upon their operators. A sailing ship or a helicopter are good metaphors for this state of interdependent discord. The very men that pilot the vessel are dependent upon others to keep it in repair and assist in subordinate operation, and all are dependent upon the conveying craft for their survival.
There is irony here, that a living thing continues according to a rhythmic process, making it the very opposite of the tool politicians and technocrats fancy it to be. Fools forever think that once they gain the wheel of the ship, the levers of power, that they will master it rather than it them.
The unique false polarity of civilization, expressed to the extreme in Modern America, is best and most concisely summed up in Ezra Pound’s dictum that the art of infamy is the proposing of two opposite lies as the truth so that the masses set to arguing over the truth may be controlled along its axis by the liars.
The controllers though, specialize and share their duties, compete with and even ruin one another. Thus the good-evil polarity that occupies the brain-numb multitude in arguing over which lie is the truth, gains a life of its own, a heart beat if you will. That beating heart is then buffeted by larger, natural systems… regional, continental, planetary, solar, galactic. This causes the pilots of the polarity to devote ever more energy and prodigious intelligence, and even art, to maintaining the social organism. These people are thence in the position of me feeding, not house cats, but lions and tigers.
The novel I just completed, Seeker Cain, posits that a driven puritan captain of the 1600s is defeated by a West African-Anglo witch doctor, Juju Quartermaine, who then uses that towering enemy’s body as a zombie slave, only to have the demands of this process bring the master into the inner orbit of the slave. As the years wear on the zombie becomes an amalgamated accretion of his master’s art, a treasured artifact; and as well, the master becomes dependent on the zombie to the point of having to be carried by him, for the energy and creativity required to keep the aging zombie alive makes its master, its pilot, something of its ward.
How different is that from a cop and his pension? The Deep State Operative is such a master, in large part a slave to the system he has a hand in operating, it being a thing vast and monstrous that could snuff him by accident. Imagine further that thousands of master minds, many in competition with each other, are required to keep things going, like the various medical specialty teams assigned to a critical care patient.
My friend, Wuhan John had cancer and was subject to Oncology, Infectious Disease and a third team of doctors. They all began wanting to vaxx them. He, being a doctor, won the male dominated teams over to his opinion that since they were busy killing his T-cells, that even if the spike protein experiment did work as advertised that it would not work for him. This left him face to face with the female dominated Oncology team, who were trying to force the vaxx. He threatened them, that if they came at him with that needle, he would regard it as an attack on his life and react accordingly. They backed off.
The system its self, is like Wuhan John, if he were as big as the hospital, delirious with pain, assailed with hunger, thirsty for ever more drink, and filled with erotic lust for his attending physicians—a dangerous monster.
A friend of mine recently had his heart beat reset electronically, a beat that went wonky when he got vaxxed. Medical means are increasingly being used as system control measures, as explored in the novel Beyond Rainbow Bridge. Perhaps this is because the many-piloted ship of society, like the human body, is a complex organism that no one doctor understands comprehensively. Just as people have medicine they take to deal with side effects caused by other medicines they take, sometimes prescribed by different doctors, and critical care patients require entire squads of specialists to extend their life, so goes the life extension of an attenuated society.
The Pilots of our False Polarity, of this delusion imposed as morality to veil our madness prone eyes from reality, they have known since my childhood that the ice age was returning, that this wicked winter that was supposed to be runaway man-made global warming will one day rear its undeniable head. This rotating staff of rodeo clowns, cowboys and bull riders know in their bones that they are one stampede from ruin. Their mission to drive us forever to market begs for more than blinders, stalls, ropes and cowbells but for sedatives and creative solutions, to on one hand keep humanity alive, and on the other confine it so it cannot thrive.
The good news is, that eventually Modernity will fall to ruin and something real will bloom where before reigned delusion.
