Commune Retreats would be a nice break from the wear and
tear of the everyday droning of a forty-hour work week. People who have no
money to go on vacation might find this way of life a change of pace, while
also being a means to reconnect with nature. The only thing that would be
required for these people is a willingness to contribute.
Let’s face it: people feel stuck. I know I did. What if we could all participate in a commune-style of living that increased everybody’s well-being? These communes would ideally be placed in rural locales, that allow for farming, husbandry, and relearning of skills that would make all communities self-sufficient. Skills like blacksmithing, crafting, permaculture, agriculture, shelter creation. The list is rather extensive.
We the people have forgotten how to take care of ourselves, and I feel it’s time that we took that power back, and what better way to do that then coming together and relearning in small communes. We could pepper the countryside with hamlets that would teach folks real skills; skills that would make them valued individuals in any commune.
A
certain level of willingness and honesty is required. A unified mission
statement that encompasses remembering how to take care of ourselves and each
other, without the messy meddlesome involvement of an unyielding and draconic
government, that is obviously broken anyway.
Perhaps we
the people have become apathetic because we don’t value what we have become.
Perhaps if we invest in true independence, we would be more selective of whom
represents that independence.
Communes would be small and non-threatening to the current establishment, but useful and encouraging to those of us truly interested in reasserting our independence from this sick and corrupt system. The commune would work with nature, and the people within it would be reeducated in peaceful assertive living that works with nature.
Once
enough of these communes were established the folks who take well to this style
of living could migrate as needed, carrying trade goods with them; these
communes would be able to give surplus goods to new communes that may still be
getting on their feet.
We have to start making plans of how we are going to take care of each other because I don’t think the current system is doing that great of a job; If I had a nanny like the U.S. Government, I would find a better nanny. We don’t need to be cared for by the state. We can and should take care of ourselves.
Let’s
take the steps necessary to ensure that we have the means to do so. Let’s
establish communes coast to coast, lets spread them out so that all the peoples
of our great country can participate in this new declaration of independence. A
simple and peaceful shift in lifestyle, one that does not require the current
sitting body we call government.
This is my plea to you all, comment below if you have skills that would benefit this movement. Comment below if you find this appealing, the idea of relearning what has been lost. Comment below if you’re as desperate as I feel. Let’s start the process of relearning how to live together, so we don’t have to continue living in separation. Let’s make this our country again.
Did the government shutdown because a working budget could not be established? I remember in the past that is what would loom over past sitting cabinets of government. Which is sad because we haven’t had a working budget, one that was truly balanced, since what, Reagan?
Now we have dozens of trillions of dollars that we can’t even account for. I was sure when that news was made public the people of this country would demand a moratorium on government itself, but the masses didn’t even flinch.
Then this current fiasco took center stage; the media cautiously slathering the airwaves with day after day of the current shutdown; it in itself a sad parody of our state of affairs, being numb from the stage that has become of capitol hill; the people droning on, peeking at their devices, wondering if the talking heads have come to some meaningful resolution.
politico.com
I told
my family years ago, that the government, the federal government especially,
did not represent us. Who is us? The common, everyday American, the ones living
from paycheck to paycheck, the ones that work 50 hours a week just to make up
for the daycare that eats up every extra cent. The once lofty middle class,
that has become disparagingly poor; and is it to anyone’s surprise, since
everything is taxed over and over; social security is taxed when you collect a
paycheck, and then it is taxed again when you collect from it; The assets that
your relatives acquired, are taxed if you attempt to give said wealth to your
children, and even as inheritance the government takes more and more in the
form of a death tax. It is deplorable.
I am tired of the slumber the American people seem to be in. I say to myself over and over, “surely this will stir them to action.” Here is the URL for the video that explains just how entrenched our representatives are. The above-mentioned corruption is detailed at 2:38, though the entire lecture is amazing and spans a host of topics, Courtesy of Dr. August Dunning.
We
cannot afford to do nothing any longer. The talking heads of the federal
government pander to the highest bidder, and they don’t do anything without the
approval of the small number they actually do represent. We must take the
operation of the systems that federal government claims responsibility for back
into our own hands. We don’t need them; we need each other.
politico.com
They are
useless, if the general body of the senate and the house are following the
insanity of a few, then we need to take action now. That body would follow
those few into a meat grinder, and us with it. I plead with you, please see how
unnecessary they truly are to our day to day lives. Perhaps the States need to
take back what the federal government has so poorly managed. What have we
become?
Are we a republic? Do you even know what our ancestors fought and died for? What they were attempting to establish? Can you stand by and watch as capital hill turns into a mockery of what once was? The Federal government, in its original form, had very few responsibilities, and for good reason. The government should be handled at the lowest, smallest level; the people in the thick of their own lives knew what would best serve them, which is why self-governing was our goal as a people.
The federal government has mishandled our currency, our welfare, our taxes, and our sovereignty. Yet, we continue droning on like lemmings to the slaughter. Have we become so entrenched in our welfare state of existence, that we are afraid that we can’t govern without this institution? Yes, it is true that more will fall on the individual, the local states will have to work with their neighbors, and the people will have to help people. I would face that for the rest of my days if it meant we could replace the CIA, IRS, FBI, The House, The Senate, etc. Their secrets and corruption will cease to matter if we walk away from them as our representatives. They do so in name alone, let’s take the illusion they do so away from them. They don’t deserve it.
Snook is
a twelve-year-old dog with a gentle yet grumbly demeanor and Oscar is an eleven-year-old
cat that is comfortably overweight, with a mournful and complaintive meow that simultaneously
cries out for his usual humans, while begrudgingly requesting love from the pet
sitters.
Let’s
not forget the eight chickens, all with names related to the plume, heritage,
or behavior of their respective breed. It is only day two of our house and pet
sit so you will forgive me if I don’t regale their names just yet.
As a Pet/House
sitter, you get a feel early on of the people you are working for through the
care and maintenance of both the animals and the property. It seems as if the land
protects or even harbors the inhabitants here. It’s obvious that this garden of
peace and compassion was tended to with fierceness and intent.
The land
naturally sits as sentry around the house and horse pens; being surrounded by a
wooded glen on all sides, within the wood a River runs the length of one side
of the property, and a lazy creek runs throughout the woods feeding the river
at various points. It is truly a nursery where both animal and man come together
in harmony.
Horses
give purpose to the entire property, the owners being avid riders, the chickens
lay eggs and in return they are housed comfortably and fed to their delight,
not to mention that even after they reach an age where they would be considered
useless for egg laying, they are cared and tended to until they die of old age.
They don’t stay cooped up either, we let them out every day and every day they
roam the property stuffing their little beaks with whatever morsel they find.
Oscar the Cat is still warming up to his new caretakers, but we have already impressed his owners with pictures of pettings and such, something they were sure would be unlikely. Oscar wanted to go outside, so I told him, the only way he is getting out of this house is if he let me pet him. Oscar didn’t waste any time; without missing a beat he walked right over to me and rubbed on my leg and allowed me to pet him with vigor. Being a man of my word, I was forced to let him out even though there was some question whether he would return to the home, with us being so foreign to his environment.
So, on a
cold rainy night, with my partner in life protesting, I let Oscar out of the
home.
“I gave
that cat my word”, I said.
She knew that I wasn’t going to budge,
so she crossed her arms and said, “You’re not going to bed until that cat comes
back inside.”
An hour
later Oscar was back inside, realizing his lost humans were not somehow locked out
of the house.
Snook, the Canine of the family didn’t realize something was amiss, until that night, when we cozied up in his humans’ bed. He became visibly depressed, after which we assured him that they would be back and that we were just here to love on him until they did indeed return. It wasn’t until his morning walk, the next day, in the cold monsoon, did realize we would keep his routine intact. He was very happy to trounce through the rain and even had to be scolded to keep away from the swollen river bank, as the river was swift and possibly dangerous if he were to fall in.
Overall, the first two days have been exciting and exhilarating. It is going to be a pleasure filling the shoes of such compassionate people. I look forward to the days to come.
I was sitting in the remnants of my supposed dream home. The six-figure salary, the wife, the child, the pop-up camper with summer vacations in tow, and the home with a big fenced in yard. This was supposed to be success. Yet I felt no joy, no satisfaction. I didn’t achieve or do any of it for myself. Everything I ever did was because I thought it was what other people wanted me to do, and if I did this or that, I would be loved for it. What a crock a shit.
This American dream is a freaking nightmare. Why would anyone get woken up by an alarm clock, speed feed, fight traffic to spend two-thirds of their day making somebody else rich. Then, go home and teach a little version of themselves that what you just did is the key to happiness.
Oh, and by the way, the woman that society demands you swear fealty to,
depends on you to keep up this little charade, or she is going to view you as
unworthy of her nether regions, and out of sense of some screwed up matriarchal
honor, take your child away from you because in this warped twilight zone world
we live in, the woman, who statistically is more likely to have lower income,
claims homage to the child, and then makes you pay for failures as a mate with
child support, alimony, and you end up working for what you lost, not what you were
reaching for. Hell. This is hell.
Being in hell, I sat on my throne. Sure, it smelled of spilled booze, pot, stale ash, and mildew, but it was hidden and isolated from expectation. Before the overweight reminder of broken promises moved out, she would on rare occasion, journey down and attempt to shame me into some action. I would placate her attempts with heartless cooing’s, assuring her that I was doing all I could, but as my sounds became less a cooing and more a soulless retort, her fat ass was seen less and less, and then none at all.
I was so relieved when she moved out; I could consume my shame in voracious
amounts without interruption. I would meander in and out of aching
consciousness with the tongue of a mummy, and my heartbeat throbbing through my
teeth.
The wailing air conditioner helped washed out the noises of suburbia, the cool air had weight to it, a gift from the humid summer, the cool relief allowing my attention to fall on more pressing matters. The blurs of grey seemed to touch the edges of my vision. I would be drawn by the motion, turn to address them, and see only the ankle-deep mounds of pizza boxes, empty cases of beer, empty bottles of Sailor Jerry and fast food bags that still had fries and pieces of bun that were too bready for the sandwich.
I knew something was feasting through it all and catching the culprits
with my eyes became a welcoming challenge and distraction from the realization
of my situation.
It hurt to move because I didn’t do it much anymore. I often wondered if I could just sit and piss in one of the empty beer cans. The inaccuracy of my efforts would have the added benefit of scattering natures refuse workers. At the last second possible I stumbled into the office where I conducted natures business, avoiding what was seen in the mirror. It was impossible to not see my silhouette get larger in the fingerprint and toothpaste stained surface, but I busied myself with navigating my way through the old pizza boxes, dirty dishes, beer and soda cans making it easier to avoid eye contact altogether.
I did my business. Reached awkwardly behind me, putting my arm at an odd
angle to flush. It kept me from looking up and behind me. The return gaze would
undo me, I think. I managed to maintain my balance as I retreated to my throne
recliner, breathless from the exertion.
Day and night began to run
together. I found myself staring into oblivion, and it stared back through the
somewhat curved reflection of the television that hasn’t seen power since the
utility company refused to give me another day of charity. I was aware that
this, oblivion, was pulling my attention too. I seemed not to mind it at this
impersonal and warped distance. The being looking back would not move unless I
did. It would not talk unless I did. The presence behind it was more though. It
boiled beneath the surface patiently waiting for redress.
Tearing myself away, I realized my life and current affairs looked much
like the room I was sitting in, but with the hollow emptiness coupled with
spurts of intense emotion, it was only a matter of time before I would have to
crawl back into my bottle or my pipe. I would run back to my paralyzing numbness
soon. I didn’t want to. So I sat between feeling and unfeeling, at the
precipice of this great tsunami that threatened to carry me off.
I knew that the cold steel of the 20 gauge shotgun was just a few feet away. All I had to do was lean over, grab it, and with a flick of a finger I could do the first thing ever for myself, and end this macabre existence. It was against my every fiber to end my life, but here I was staring at this device like it was the only thing left to do. I felt its weight in my hands; its inert silence beckoning me to find out what lay on the other side of hells domain.
I found myself chuckling at first as the tears relented and surrendered
to gravity. Then the chuckling, metamorphic in nature, became a seized wailing.
I must have been in a vacuum of some cosmic time loop because every time I
would attempt to exhale no sound could be heard and it seemed unending.
I removed the magazine from this odd model shotgun, slid the slide back
one more time to ensure that no round was conveniently left in the chamber,
closed the chamber and placed the business end underneath my chin. I angled it
forty-five degrees to ensure that the buckshot, even at this caliber, was
lethal.
I look over like a Roman soldier looks over his gladius. Reverently ensuring it’s up to the task. I just have to put two pounds of pressure on this small lever, and it all ends. I pull the trigger and imagine the quaint little click to be the thundering crescendo ushering me into a new way of un-being removed from this misery.
I stared at the phone. I had no bridges connecting me to any hope of relief. Except for one. I moved away from home very early. I didn’t leave on the best of terms, but still, no ill will could be felt after so many years were left in my place. Time heals all wounds as they say. Hanging on that thread I dial the number. The voice, a sound of true love, a sound only a loving mother could utter, a sound only a child recognized,
“Hello?”
My voice, weak from lack of use, tears through my vocal cords like sandpaper, “Hi mom.”
“Michael?”
Not totally unexpected, I barely recognized my own voice.
I take a swig
of whiskey to wet my throat, and perhaps give me the courage to admit my
failures, and ask…no.. beg for help. The reality of my situation conceded, I
just corralled the words out of my mouth “I really need help mom.” Cringing as
if I was going to be struck down, I waited.
I can’t even piece together two sentences, and through the, “Mom I really messed up, I need help.” and “Can I come home until I can get back on my feet?” She hammered in the final nail with a simple statement of, “I can’t help you, son, I’m sorry.” Somehow still maintaining that the sound of true love while still denying me any hope my befuddled mind could comprehend. My potential reprieve sounded so far away and insignificant. I managed to mimic an acceptable goodbye before I lost all muscle control and just sat there in the silence of crushed hope.
I remember looking at the shotgun and laughing hysterically, I used to view
those who committed suicide as weak, but with my legs of illusion cut out from
underneath me I loaded and grabbed my only friend, and marched back into
natures office.
I stared through what I saw in the mirror, and for a moment I was paralyzed by what gazed back. I did not recognize who was staring back at me. It was like meeting a self from another dimension. We looked related. Faintly. Then with peculiar ease, my reflection smiled back, placed the shotgun as rehearsed, and blew his brains out.
The shock of the shotgun blast jolted me. I saw the blood paint the wall through the reflection at angles you only thought were possible. I saw the pellets of the buckshot make a pretty pattern in the wall behind the other me, where he was just standing. Though stunned by the deafening discharge I stared at the finality of his act. I found myself looking down into his world through the mirror. The other me was a lifeless heap. I forced my attention to the shotgun that was on my side of the mirror and from the barrel came a faint bluish grey smoke. The smell of powder and raw meat beginning to touch my other senses was enough; I let go of my possible fate as if it electrocuted me, throwing myself to the ground, creating as much distance from my potential fate, as quickly as possible.
I ran. I ran and I never looked back. I don’t think about what happened too often, but sometimes the whiff of raw meat will inexplicably enter my nostrils, and I am reminded of that day. I look into the mirror every morning expecting to see that alien smile, instead, I only see a knowing gratefulness for another day.
What if I told you, we didn’t have much time left, as a civilization? What if I told you we have less than thirty years to come together and be the best we can be? Would you believe me? Would you ask for proof, and then mitigate and dismiss it in hand, or would it give you pause; would you look at what time we have left, and change the way we do all of it?
I am telling you, that we, on this earth, most likely have less than thirty years left. I won’t waste my time citing proof, but I will tell you a good place to start investigating; Ben and Kat Davidson have poured a large portion of their life into what is called Suspicious Observers. They and the organization of citizen scientist they support have all the evidence you will need to establish an informed decision.
I am more interested in the what follows. The way I see it we can respond in one of two ways: we can respond in love or fear. Do we band together and create something worthy to pass down, or do we choose fear, and tear each other apart before the end even occurs. A lot can happen in twenty years. Why do I even ask, right? What’s the point, if it’s all going to go to shit anyway? Well, I guess that depends on your view of what we are. I believe that we are consciousness and that we will persist long after this solar system turns to dust. I also believe that science is proving that. You must be able to separate yourself from the dogmatic religionist that claim to be a scientist, and think critically. May the odds forever be in your favor.
There is
so much information that is being pandered as truth and headline news that it
can be easy to miss and to shut it all out, or become numb with everything that
is being shoved down our throats. Our politicians, at least some of them, have
known for some time that the world is going to end. Maybe that is why they act
so brazenly. It doesn’t take a genius to see that we are on a collision course for
self-destruction.
You ever
ask yourself, why they are so determined to keep us separated and at each other
throats? Why not work together to build
something we can be proud of, instead of allowing such a minority to keep us divided
and petty? If we know that no matter what we do, we’re screwed, wouldn’t you
rather spend the last decades living in love and fostering greatness? I would.
I was talking with a colleague and were debating if it would be better to tell humanity that the end is nigh, or not. I remember thinking if I was a doctor, and I knew my mother had a terminal illness, I wondered if it would be better to tell her or not? For so many of us, news like that changes us. Things that were important seem petty, and the course of our lives are altered forever. Doesn’t it seem fair to tell humanity that her time is short and that she should make final arrangements and do what’s important, because she doesn’t have much time left?
I would want to know. I believe you would, too. So, I’m telling you, I believe that we are short on time. That we need to come together as a global people, make amends, and return to love. Imagine what we could accomplish in the next two decades if we knew that it was the last two decades, we ever had to accomplish anything. These ideas of hate and separation would melt away or consume us; racism, bigotry, nationalism, and so many more would have to be chosen between love, peace, unity, and so on. We can’t straddle the fence any longer. One set of ideas must win out over the other, and it needs to happen now.
You need an open mind. What you will read will force you to look at yourself, your surroundings, and the bullshit stories we tell ourselves every day. Without a truly open mind, you are likely to dismiss in hand what I’m about to tell you.
I realize I’m asking a lot because lifting the narrative that has been placed like a shroud on our awareness will seemingly cost us dearly. We will no longer be able to claim ignorance; we will have to take responsibility for our part in this unholy experiment. However, the cost of not lifting the vail will cost us everything. We will remain separated from our true nature, and that is a cost I can’t endure any longer.
We first have to come to the understanding of what we are. For the sake of argument, let us keep it simple. We are pure consciousness. You’re just going to have to take my word for it, and if you can’t at least entertain the idea, then stop reading, you’re a lost cause anyway.
You’re still here? Good, let’s continue.
So, if you can take the idea that we are pure consciousness, and then overlay that idea with the question, “If I am pure consciousness, what then is the purpose of the body, in its current form?”, then you might begin to question whether the body, in its current form, is fulfilling the purpose of expanding our consciousness or constraining it.
The problem with visible light
Our eyes
can only see roughly 0.0035 percent of total light, and that’s just based on
what light we know is out there. You ever wonder why that is? You ever hear the
phrase our eyes are not made to see and our ears are not made to hear? Was that
done by design, and if it was, why and by whom?
If I were to ask you, “Who do you think designed our bodies?” You would probably tell me one of two things: either God did, or nature did through evolution. Some believe that it’s both, but either way, it’s supposed to be this way, right?
I disagree. I believe our bodies when allowed to assume a truly natural homeostasis with consciousness (what we are), behaves and communicates on a wider range then we have previously been allowed to imagine.
In its current form, however, the body behaves more like a prison than a conduit for experiencing ourselves fully. Which is what I would create the body for if I was pure consciousness.
The Conundrum of our Empathy
The current definition of empathy: the ability to share and understand the feelings of another.
Most of
us have some degree of empathy, but most of us are limited by our own living experience.
If you have never lost a loved one and you go to a funeral of a friend, you can
see they are in pain, but you have no ability to know truly what your friend is
feeling. If we truly had a full range of
access to our empathy, we would not need to have a similar experience; you and your
friend would just share the pain as one consciousness. This act, would not only
redefine what empathy really is, but what love really is.
Some may
say that we are not ready for that level of intimacy, but I argue that without
that level of intimacy we are incapable of truly understanding what we are. We
have somehow been isolated from one another, and I am convinced that this isolation
is caused by an external medium, that is subtle in its deployment, and is
justified through our complicit apathy.
I bet you are wondering what that medium is. By the title, I bet you have some idea. The moon. That’s right, it’s the moon. That ridiculous, right? How could the moon be a medium of manipulation of our entire being? Well, first of all, I don’t believe the moon is just the moon. There is a mountain of evidence that the moon is just plain wrong. It’s too big, it behaves like it’s hollow, and if you explore YouTube videos it won’t take long to realize that a lot of energy has gone into ensuring we don’t figure out what the moon really is.
Our awareness
has been constrained to the spectrum we call visible light. I have a feeling if
we mass distributed telescopes, sunglasses, and other viewing devices that
covered a wide swath of the electromagnetic spectrum, we would see the
deception for what it is, and as the saying goes, “The jig would be up.”
Not only
that, but because our empathy has been eroded as much as it has, we rely heavily
on our outer senses to tell us what is out there. We are truly numb and blind,
but only because of our apathy. We haven’t pushed hard enough to break out of
this egg of control. If we did, it would not, and could not keep us in this
state of existence.
So how do we do that? I’m not sure, to tell you the truth. I think the first step is talking about it. Facing it head-on. Looking at what seems to be preposterous, and gazing at it until the idea has been fully explored. That means eliminating it as a possibility. Let’s mass produce telescopes and sunglasses that allow us to see in all of the electromagnetic bands. If I’m wrong, then we won’t glean anything new, but I believe we will.
Not only that, but we will find out just who is on our side.
The Calypso was roughly 1/50th
the size of the Elizabeth, she was massive. There were docking ports fore, aft
and in-between. Gaining access wasn’t the problem, it was the nebula; the
ionized gasses were mucking up the calypso’s sensors, making it difficult to navigate
or scan the Elizabeth for any useful data.
Cal opened up a channel, “Elizabeth
this is the Calypso requesting permission to dock.”
Doc was faced the other way so he couldn’t see what Cal was seeing, “Why are you asking permission to dock on a vessel with no crew?”
Cal said, “I am detecting anomalous
readings, suggesting that something or someone is alive on board.”
Doc spun around, “People are alive
in there?”
Cal showed his usual impatience,
“How the hell should I know. It could be interference from the nebula or
something on board. I just thought I would knock before bashing the door down.
I found a strong reading suggesting that the device is on the bridge. We are
going to dock into one of the escape pod ports there. It will give you the
highest chance of success.” Cal pointed as he piloted the moon-hopper.
Doc looked at Cal, “Oh you’re
coming with me flyboy.”
Cal became very sarcastic, “There
could be demon spawn on board.”
Doc crossed his arms, “Thus why you
are coming with me, to watch my back.”
Cal grinned behind his jitteriness,
“You could always radio me if there’s trouble.”
Doc looked appraisingly, “Think of
the stories you’ll be able to tell all those hungry harlots in the Perseus
Cluster.”
Cal smiled, “You think they will trade lovin’ for those stories?”
Doc smiled, “Maybe, if you let me teach you how to talk to ladies.”
Cal became serious, “I wouldn’t
call that lot lady like.”
Cal’s grin widened like a shark, “Ah hell Doc, I wasn’t gonna let you go in alone anyway. Orders are orders.”
The Calypso was small enough that
the ship easily docked into the empty escape port. The sound of docking clamps
gripping the Elizabeth could be heard inside, KAT KAT KAT KAT KAT, followed by
the decompression of the Calypso PSSSSSSHHOOOO.
Doc looked at the clock counting, it read twenty-two minutes. “We have 30 minutes to get in, and back to the Calypso. We are gonna be using grav boots, so, it’s gonna be slow, but we have enough time. If we are engaged the primary concern is to keep the path to the Calypso open. Copy?”
Cal chambered a round. “Copy.”
Cal and Doc were carrying Mk III
assault rifles with class IV ammunition; the ammunition carried everything it
needed to fire, including its own oxygen. It was state of the art, and
according to Cal, it saved his life on countless occasions. Doc was grateful
for Cal’s propensity for violence and would be glad to have him at his back,
even if he detested its necessity.
The escape hatch door was already open, so when the door to the Calypso arose, the cones of light shone from their weapons into the corridor, illuminating floating debris hugging the edges of the long passageway that slightly bent to the right out of view of the two would-be plunderers.
Doc stepped out first. As the grav boots grabbed the ceiling, a light on the ankle and toe of the gravity boots went from red to green, the light changing color before and after every step was taken. The lights were not bright, but they created an eerie glow as the debris cascaded off the brave explorers, showering the corridor with long twisting shadows.
As Doc and Cal made their way forward, a floating corpse of a crewman became visible. The skin was cracked and split like a dried desert lakebed, a common and gruesome sight that accompanied explosive decompression. The face caught in mid-scream through the glare of the light kept Doc from looking to close as he attempted to treat the remains with respect, but with his attention on the closed bulkhead, and the corpse constantly bumping into his shoulder, he finally turned to shove her down the corridor. The moment he touched her, a residual memory flashed into Doc’s mind.
Specialist Ashley Casa was dumped out of her rack by an earthquake. Ashley was confused, ships didn’t have earthquakes. The first dumped her on the floor, the second slammed her against the wall, and the third slid her under the bed. The lighting flickered before stabilizing.
The ship-wide intercom squawked, “General Quarters. Security to deck seven. General Quarters, Security to deck seven, followed by a whooping siren before repeating.”
Specialist Ashley Casa had just been reassigned to the bridge team. It was a big promotion, but she hadn’t even set foot on the bridge yet, tomorrow was her first day.
Within moments Ashley Casa had regained her footing and had made her way outside her quarters. As Ashley tried to remember where she was going, people were heading to their assigned stations with practiced, hurried ease. Panic wasn’t something you usually saw on the faces of the crew, and it was comforting to see everyone moving with purpose; it gave Ashley Casa the wits to remember where the bridge was, and she beelined it to a Go-To, which was just down the corridor.
As Specialist Ashley Casa entered the Go-To and began entering the bridge location data an eruption of gunfire and screams could be heard from the direction from whence she came. Just as the Go-To glass tube slid down around her, a man by the name of Daniel Cummings, ghost white in complexion, was running at a full sprint with sheer terror, presumably to the very Go-To station that she occupied.
Daniel’s panicked face smooshed up against the glass tube, “Open up Specialist, I have priority!”
The sheer terror felt by Specialist Ashley Casa caused her to unconsciously shake her head in slow short burst, as she confirmed her location on the keypad superimposed on the glass tube of the Go-To. The confirmation started the customary twenty-second countdown.
Ashley never noticed before, but Daniel had the prettiest blue eyes. It’s funny what you notice, she thought. You see, she didn’t notice the countdown superimposed on the glass or even the gun that Daniel was pointing at her head through the glass. She saw the life in Daniel’s beautiful brilliant blue eyes.
The lights flickered and then they went out altogether. When the red emergency lights kicked on everything stopped: her heart, her breath, the blood in her veins. It all just froze. The lithe shadow creature was twice the height of Daniel, as it stood behind him. Daniel noticed Ashley’s skin turn white as the blood pooled away from her extremities. He didn’t have a chance to turn around: the shadow…thing picked Daniel up like he was an infant, turned him so they faced each other, and they locked gazes. Daniel pissed himself, and then brilliant white light cracked and lined his face and arms, it shined through his clothes. The shadow pulled the light right out of Daniel, devouring it. When it was done, what was left of Daniel was tossed to the ground. Daniels’ body was covered in large hollow crevices where light burst forth from his body, but there was no blood, not a drop. Just a husk that Ashley swore was going to blow away like fine grains of dust.
The slinky shadow stood motionless, except the creatures’ face took on the countenance of Daniel, his eyes, they were Daniels’, until they weren’t. The black bottomless versions locked gazes with Ashley and the shadow uttered in hollow words that sounded like Daniel but somehow very distant, “Don’t let them take you.” The Shadow became faceless once more, looked right through Specialist Ashley Casa, the countdown reached zero and she vanished…but Doc was still seeing the shadow, and the shadow was seeing him, when the hand reached through the glass and grabbed him by the throat, Doc screamed, “AHHHHH!”
“AHHHH!”
“Doc!”, Cal shook Doc by the shoulder, and if it were possible Doc would have slinked away from Cal’s concern, but his grave boots held him in place, so he fell to his rump in a slow zero-G fashion.
Doc let out a scream, as the world
came back, “NOOO!”
Cal had never seen the Doc like
this, and it was shaking his cool, “Doc! Pull your shit together. We have to
get this bulkhead open.”
Doc just sat there eating up his oxygen in quick breaths, but a minute passed and the shadow had not come back to finish the job. Doc slowed his breathing, stood up, and looked Cal in the eyes so he knew the gravity of the situation, “A light-eater was here, and…and I think it might know we’re here.”
Cal didn’t wait for Doc to explain, he grabbed a silver disc that was attached to his suit, placed it on the sealed bulkhead. Sequential lights began blinking along the edge of the disc, coming full circle. The bulkhead door arose, showing a war-torn bridge covered in scorching and scarring in all directions. Bodies like the one in the adjoining hall were floating with grotesque visages of their final moments pasted all over their terrified faces. Empty shell casings were so numerous that when Cal stepped in to clear his side of the bridge, his suit collided with the casings causing them to domino out.
Cal has been in twenty-seven
firefights, half of those on space vessels, and half of those at some point
became zero-G environments, and never has he seen anything like this.
Cal looked to the Doc, “No relic,
and I only see one form of ammo discharged. There doesn’t seem to be a
concentrated point of fire, they fired their weapons in every direction, that
is not what a firefight supposed to look like.”
Doc moved to the dead consoles
attempting to ascertain the last moments before the ship went dark. He pushed
the customary buttons that would usually prompt the console to come to life,
but like everything else on the bridge, it was dead.
Cal, realizing what Doc was doing spoke up, “Check under that console to the left of the one you just tried; sometimes these old military freighters would put old power supplies under the consoles in case of unexpected power drains.”
Doc looked, stood up, and shook his
head.
Cal shrugged, “Ah hell, when have I
ever been that lucky?”
Doc continued to search the terminals. “We may not have found the artifact, but we are not leaving here empty-handed. I am going to pull ships logs, maybe Kassy can recover them once we get back to the Nightingale.”
Cal positioned himself so that he could watch Doc’s back. “Hurry up, this place doesn’t add up, and I don’t want to stick around to find out why.”
Well, is it? Can you answer that question? The more and more I look at our world the more I question its nature. Its seeming isolation in our galaxy; why haven’t we made contact with other life? The unexplained occurrences of people picking up cars to save loved ones. The power of belief; how can you explain the placebo effect or people that dance with snakes because they believe they have been protected by their faith, and when bitten some truly are protected.
There seems to be no solidity or continuity to our reality. It seems to be based on perception, and the individual, but that’s not the whole story. When we come together and pray our will seems to become singular. If you’re a science buff, you can cite papers or eyewitness testimony, modern and in the past, that support all of these observations.
That’s what science is, right? Reported and repeated observation. What about witnesses to the fantastic? It’s almost like we send our science crews out to debunk and disprove anything that doesn’t fit into our neat little boxes of understanding. The movie, “The Matrix” comes to mind; those agents that worked for the machine to hunt down the anomalies and remove them before they became a problem for the collective.
Our lives have become so busy. I use that word with purpose; Busy: to distract us, keep us occupied so that we don’t notice the little nuances that would bring this dream to a crashing halt. Why? Why would we do that? Is reality so terrible? Do we even remember what reality is? Who we are?
Let’s attempt a mental exercise; let’s assume for the moment that this is a dream. How would we convince ourselves that we are indeed dreaming? No two people believe in the same thing the same way, how then do we even agree on any given cipher that would unlock the door to awakening?
I have so many questions. How many of us are there, truly? Is our consciousness replicated into multiple human beings so that we can live simultaneous lives? If you traveled as much as I have, you notice there are only so many variations of our genome. Folks with similar looks have similar behavior traits as well. I see my friends and family in complete strangers, and while sometimes I recognize a facial feature, usually it’s deeper than that; the mannerisms are similar, the eyes have the same sadness, or they hold themselves with certain regard. It’s not just one thing, it’s a combination of intangibles.
I tell my wife all the time, “There’s Sally, over there at the register.” My wife will study the chosen subject, and by the time we’re finished with breakfast she sees Sally or tells me that I’m reaching. I know what you’re going to say. It’s suggestive, right? It certainly is based on perspective, and personal experience, but in a dream, that’s all it would be. Nothing ever would be concrete.
It’s a skeptics paradise. Doubt seemingly sprouts from every occurrence, and the proof is countered with disproof. We must rely on a different set of investigative tactics, or we are doomed to get nowhere.
This
dream is not in our direct control, but seemingly is affected by our higher and
lower consciousness faculties, yet what we call consciousness is not in direct
contact or alignment with either the super-consciousness or the
Sub-consciousness. They both seem to operate independently of what we call our
conscious self.
Quantum physicist say that evidence is mounting that our world is holographic. Isn’t that just another term for a dream? They also have proven that anything observed is affected by the observer, proving, to some degree that perception is the ruler by which we measure our experience. How can we rely on science, in its current canon, to be effective at determining the state of our reality? I don’t think we can. At the very least we are going to have to create another branch of science that follows a different set of observation guidelines to get to the bottom of this mystery.
There
will be more to come regarding this investigation into the possibility that we
are in a dream world, but for now, just consider what has been provided thus
far. Consider that science, in its current form, is deficient and incapable of serving
any investigator that willfully travels down this rabbit hole.
We need
a new way, but for now, really ask yourself, “Is my world the real world, or is
it a Dream?”
If you can’t see the monster in the mirror, you’re not looking.
I just read an article that stunned me into silence. The article titled, “Inside The Country Where You Can Buy A Black Man For $400” goes into detail about the mass migrations of people from Africa and neighboring regions, and the predatory slave trade, that not only preys on the people migrating, but extorts and bribes European countries to look the other way while this unnamed organization staunches the flow of migrants.
The journalist, Monica Mark, goes into gruesome detail of just how this slave trade operates by leading us by the hand into the life of one Ikuenobe, a man from Nigeria, who attempted to migrate to Europe in search of a better life.
Monica
Mark didn’t use the word holocaust, but maybe she should have; how can you call
it anything else, how is modern slavery even a thing? I knew human trafficking was
real, but I thought it was curtailed to prostitution and the such, but it’s obvious
just how ignorant I truly was.
We seriously have to question how such activities have, in their rampant form, gone unchecked for so long. Our countries governments obviously know this is happening, and it even appears they are profiting and even tending this garden of debauchery.
I have always said that our countries governments never truly represented us, but I never dreamed they could act so callously in our name. It goes without saying that the world, our world, should have a common interest regarding the abolishment of slavery.
How ashamed I find myself feeling when I look at what we banter about as political and national agendas. This shame is collective and demands attention. This isn’t something we can even leave in the hands of our so-called leaders. We must change, and see it through.
These
people, like Ikuenobe, could easily be any one of us. We are all just one natural
disaster or economic collapse from being in the same shoes. It behooves us all
to demand this outrageous behavior cease.
Once upon a time, there was a little tree who grew up in a stormy sea. The wind howled and the waves crashed, yet the tree grew and grew.
On one of those stormy days,
when the waves crashed and the wind howled and the thunder shook the air, the
growing tree grew tired of the stormy sea.
God loved the tree so much
that it gave the growing tree thick bark and thorns, so the growing tree could
continue to grow in the stormy sea.
The storm still howled and the waves still
crashed. So, the tree with its beautiful bark and sharp colorful thorns pleaded
with God, “please, make the storm stop! It hurts me, and makes me sad.”
The tree didn’t know this,
but God loved the stormy sea just as much as the tree. God did not like to see the growing tree sad.
So, God gave the growing tree wings, and said, “I will not stop the stormy sea
oh lovely tree, but I will give you these wings so you can fly to a land
without a stormy sea.”
So the growing tree took the
wings and said,” thank you thank you so much God!” With a wink and smile, the
growing tree flew and flew for a long long time, hopping from island to island
until the growing tree grew tired and lonely.
Then the growing tree found
a beautiful little island where there was no stormy sea and asked God,” Can you
bring me a wonderful friend to play with. One with beautiful red and gold
leaves.”
God saw how lonely the
growing tree had become, and decided to help the growing tree, it granted his
wishes and created a beautiful red and gold tree to live, love and play with.
It made God happy to see the
trees live, love and laugh together. Then the most beautiful miracle happened;
the growing tree and the red and gold tree lived, loved, and laughed together
so much that a baby tree sprouted from their love.
Then one day the growing
tree, having everything it could ever want, forgot the giver and how it was
given, and turned into a stormy sea. The wind howled, the waves crashed and the
thunder shook the air!
After a time, the red and gold tree and the baby tree became tired of the stormy seas and prayed to God, “Please make the stormy seas stop! It makes us sad.” The red and gold and the baby tree didn’t know this, but God loved the stormy sea just as much as thee.
The growing tree that turned into a stormy sea, was gifted with eyes and saw how the storm hurt the red and gold and baby tree, and it made the growing tree that turned into a stormy sea sad. So, the growing tree that turned into the stormy sea tried as hard as he could to stop.
The growing tree that turned
into a stormy sea tried harder and harder. The harder he tried the stormier he
became.
Then the growing tree that turned into a stormy sea asked God, “why can’t I turn back into a growing tree?” God said, “you silly tree that turned into a stormy sea, I am the only one who knows how to go from tree to sea to tree again. All you must do is ask me.”
So the growing tree that turned into a stormy sea asked God how to turn into a growing tree again, and God told him. So with a wave and a wink, the stormy sea became the growing tree once more, and all the trees lived happily ever after. THE END
The Adventures of the Traveling Philosopher 