...
Right here, right in this itty snippet, this taste of Catherine Austin Fitts' weekly report to her subscribers, is evidence of why I would trust my fortune to her if only I had one. Somewhere along the line, humans learn it is so much easier to think within the prescribed boundaries than to think our own thoughts that it becomes second nature. Even as we also learn to appreciate great thinkers outside the box... in movies and books... or those exalted by the media, which means they are either pre-approved or judged a worse threat to persecute than to leave alone... we somehow usually only get the inspiration to seem unconstrained by convention... which... sorry... is a convention... possibly to be turned into a hook, a mode of profit generation, a way to dazzle babes at the very least. I'm not talking about that. I'm talking about someone who actually steps outside the established "wisdom" to get to the real answers.
Maybe you can catch it immediately, or maybe you need to listen a few times.
The people who are groping around within the vastness of storehouse consciousness — what they were taught in school, and what they absorb within their professional communities, and what's wafting in from media space and social interaction — for the bits to put together to explain the state of things — which can only be described as weird, when you strip as many value judgements as you reasonably can from an as completely objective point of view as you can muster — are never going to lead us out of hell. Yes, many of the people making this hell are really just corrupt, or corrupted, but that can't be all of them, and, yes, people can really seem to be conspiring, never having actually sat down together and conspired, when they are all going about their lives and work with identical attitudes, identical world views, but what really reaches into this cosmic soup pot of possibility here and fishes out the stock bone?
Nothing they've taught you, nothing you think you already know.
I'm sixty-one years old. I have been throttled by this realization since sometime in my twenties. I have every kind of relation to this realization you can imagine. None of it worked, no matter how much intensity I brought to bear. This is the reason I left the world. I was so determined to get to truth, not even the real prospect of Bag Lady could put me off it. This is mandatory to anyone who will not settle for the lie. This is the rub. Destitution and homelessness puts everyone off their big ideas of enlightenment... whether or not that actually stares us in the face. Suffice it to merely be a remote possibility. So almost everyone will stay jockeying for seniority within the lie, only some being honest enough to harbor secret desires for the real deal.
As long as this rules the world, life on Endurance is great suffering for all sentient beings, and that is why enlightening beings vow to save them. Right here is a little solar system. You don't reach enlightenment without the motive of saving sentient beings, aren't enlightening when that isn't your actual motive, no matter what you only say. Sentient beings are not being saved when you are just mouthing your vow so everybody thinks you're spiritual and you are not enlightening then either. This is the kernel of the big deal about you having to be the change, about you having to be responsible for everything wrong and every incarnation of relation with that concept.
There can be no relation with it.
That is the point! No anti-establishmentarianism. No political party. No politics of lifestyle. No us and them. No institution however well-intended. No working within it to change it. No getting tagged as an activist. No ocean of sanctimony. No meekly shrugging your shoulders. No distracting yourself. No art. No living well is the best revenge. No dope. No addiction. No mental posture, including schizophrenia. No caving-in to it. No amount of seniority within the lie. There is no relation with it that fixes it. Ever.
You have to be so frustrated by that fact you finally spring off the face of Endurance, so to speak, and see. I've close to forty years' experience with this... sixty if you count from when it first reared its ugly head... when my grandma laughed at me for using a big word. Don't be a jackass. I know what I'm talking about. So, when I find someone who can throw down their mental conditioning to get to the good part, the real part, the way to a beneficent outcome, believe me, I am suddenly willing to step out of my glue pit for that.
My vaunted antipathy for The Real World? Pfeh. Tough shit, nines! I'm goin' in! I'm goin' in to the belly of the Beast — San Mateo — to be your faithful correspondent at a conference of Weirdos, of great thinkers outside the box not pre-approved by the psychopaths. Sure, some of them are going to be your basic alien-enfatuated confused types, but I'm hoping I can either ignore or highlight appropriately those people.
I mean, look, remember The Man Who Fell to Earth? I'm not bringing that up to be chic. Go back and watch it again. Bowie is from elsewhere in the movie and maybe in real life, but just focus on him in that movie, as a real space alien making his way around here, around on the face of Endurance. It's completely human. Forget how the movie is highlighting human shortcomings, the protagonist is a being first of all, as are we all, and the off world stuff is just entertainment, just titillating. No. Seriously. Put yourself into that movie. For the duration, just let it be reality itself. That spaceman, he's perfectly the same as you are. Utterly. Completely. Indistinguishably. Indivisibly.
That is what I mean about the whole space aliens bit being MOOT....
Being attracted to it or put off by it is immaterial to actuality. The imperative is the actuality. There are at least two people on the list of speakers I feel grok this imperative sufficiently to get at it, so probably there will be more. This means nines must move out of her den to interface with the dreaded general public, and the only part of me that is bulletproof enough to venture out into it is my visceral identification with the Buddha of Infinitely High Strangeness himself, the unparalleled, the magnificent, the sublime ancestor great enlightening being, Hunter S. Thompson. I know I will be blessed to catch the hem of that fabric, and, shit, I don't like it even crossing my mind that this can be viewed as derivative, but, shit shit shit, I don't aim low, and hang it all, I need him for courage.
I need him like my dad fingering his Saint Christopher medal whenever he was too aggravated. Maybe I can find an HST medal.
So I'm naming my Solari Report series "Fear and Loathing in Silicon Valley"....
