Limits of an Infinite Self

Human experience follows a limited set of archetypes. One of the best-known models of this set is laid out in the 22 Major Arcana of the Tarot. Card XVI, The Tower, represents the archetype of the Dark Night of the Soul.

I just passed through a Dark Night of the Soul experience, and am still very much in the process of learning from it, seeking and assimilating the wisdom to be gained. I am grateful to several individuals in particular for helping me pull through. One of them is a public figure, rapper KRS-ONE. His lecture Hip Hop Beyond Entertainment was instrumental in bringing about the personal epiphany that brought this most recent Dark Night experience of mine to a definitive close.

KRS-ONE re-minded me (re-HEARTed is more like it) of the primal significance of the realization that I AM. That's where our true power comes from, the power to truly end slavery – to end the entire idea, the very consciousness behind slavery. To paraphrase the hip hop philosopher, as long as you're looking outside yourself for validation, you are FREED – not FREE. Freedom – self-actualization – is what gives someone the ability to take a worthless rag, tie it around their head, walk around in public like that rag is worth ten thousand bucks, and end up having other people actually pay ten thousand bucks to have one just like it.

And that's pretty much what hip hop did. It came out of seemingly hopeless circumstances: war overseas, fatherless families, an epidemic of heroin, substandard education, and a cycle of poverty. That generation, in order to survive in a world where it was effectively excluded from the mainstream of society, had to self-create its own identity outside the mainstream. If they'd waited for permission to have a culture, or to join the wider, established culture, they'd still be waiting. Except they'd probably be dead. It was Do or die, so the ones who refused to die... Did. Lacking instruments, they made their own music with what they did have. Lacking approved venues for their visual art, they used the surfaces that were there, whether they had permission or not; hence, graffiti. Their solution to the impossibility of their situation was to reject the reality of their parents' generation and replace it with their own reality, one that they could understand and that reflected their own values. Hip hop didn't need approval, it approved itself... and flourished. By the same token, FREE human beings don't need to earn the right to exist, they have that right intrinsically, because they exist. I AM, therefore I AM.

What value do you place on yourself? Are you worth more if you own more real estate or have a bigger bank account? Are you more human because you have a family and other people who care about you? If you don't value your soul, does it have worth? Are you less than completely you if you lack the university degree or the job you want? Does your self-worth depend on someone else's say-so? And who is responsible for you? Do you want somebody to protect you from your own choices, or are you willing to face the consequences without blinking? If you say you're going to do something, and then don't hold yourself to it, what was the point? Your existence either means something, or it doesn't. If it doesn't, then you might as well not exist. And would you choose that, really? Because it is a choice. You may not have to earn your right to exist, but you sure as hell ought to claim it. Because if you don't own your life, someone else will.

Me, I'm still working on getting this through to myself. It's been four and a half years since the first time I consciously came to this realization. That time I ended up losing my nerve, sliding back. I reckon it's a case of “not being ready 'till you're ready.” But I think the point's been driven just a liiiittle closer to home this time. If it takes another Dark Night before I'm really ready, then so be it. But I'm not throwing away this chance.

Thank you, God, and thank me, God.

Espavo, Namasté, and peace out.

(This dream didn't seem very important at first. But the more I recalled of it, the more I realized how significant it might be – for its entertainment value, if nothing else. The following story is 95% straight from the dream, as close as I can get it and still have a coherent text.)

~

Buddy and I are messing around in the school gym. No one's around, so like the kids we are, we open up the bleachers and start running up and down, making kiddish little jokes. All of a sudden, I get this strong premonition, as if the fire alarm were sounding, even though nothing can be physically heard: “Danger, danger! Look outside!”

I run out, up the corridor, and through the two sets of glass doors to get outside. I look up. There's a gigantic thing in the sky, coming down. At first it's just a bunch of glowing straight lines, but as it slowly makes its spinning descent, its form becomes more solid. It's a friggin' alien spacecraft, and it does not feel friendly at all.

Before the thing even lands, I'm making to run inside to warn everybody, 'cause I got this huge adrenaline rush, fight-or-flight, and everything in me screams FLIGHT. But there's already a cascade of bodies piling out of the doors. People are going out to meet this thing. All they've got is curiosity and excitement, no idea that they're walking straight into the monster's jaws. I'm screaming at them as I fight the current to get back inside, but nobody pays any attention. I'm just an annoyance to them.

I watch helplessly as the crowd makes its way up to the ship, which has now landed on the grass of the playing field and opened up its large bay doors. A ramp bridges the divide between ship and schoolyard, nice and level. There's some kind of really weird mind control going on, like a voice in your head, and it seems to affect everyone but me. The message is basically that everything we could ever want and need is on board, and we'll all be so much happier if we leave our old lives behind and go along with the ship. It stinks to high heaven and I don't believe any of it for a second.

But everyone else is going. So what can I do except tag along?

~

I'm on the ship. It's a lot bigger on the inside, more like a city than a building. Earth is gone, we're stuck in outer space somewhere. Anywhere. Nowhere.

I have to say, they've got a pretty good set-up here. It's the perfect prison. There are no guards, no bars. But the conditioning! It was all done in stages, but now everyone's used to it. The meaningless jobs that they slave at for most of the day. The rules and regulations covering every aspect of their lives. The ugly, crowded accommodations. The sterile, artificial food.

I go visit my friend. He's still his happy old self. He's one of the first to have voluntarily moved to the new living quarters: a grid of concrete cells sunk about a metre and a half into the floor. Oh, but you can still move around freely, visit your neighbours. It's not that bad, really. He digs into his meal ration, a new and improved option: what looks like bread crumbs (but probably isn't), mixed with a chemical cocktail of different powders for enhanced flavour and nutrition and performance, with a little oil to make it stick together and go down. He offers me a taste. It's really good, he says, beaming. I decline.

Next day, there's an announcement: no work today. Just fun and good times. They call it Entertainment Day. They have these, what, once a month, once a year? Always a surprise, and it's such fun that nobody complains. Wouldn't dream of it. Aren't they so awesome for giving us Entertainment Day? I watch as everyone crowds into the coliseum. Not into the stands; their place is in the arena. Oh yeah, here they come: the bat-winged terror babies. Are they monkeys or babies? Whatever they are, we're all terrified of them. They swarm us and strafe us and swoop down to scrape us. We all run around like headless chickens, screaming, hooting and hollering. The masters love it. And somehow, so does everyone else. They like being terrorized.

I'm not like the others. I've never succumbed to any of the masters' conditioning. Oh, but I keep forgetting: they've got their own special conditioning just for me. You see, I serve them too. It has to be that way. In return, I get some pretty good perks. But I'm not a willing servant. I hate them for what they've done to us all. In my heart, I swear I will see their rule ended.

I suppose I should be thankful they let me keep at least part of my mind. I never remember any of the stuff I do for them, and maybe that's their sick idea of mercy. I'm not really human anymore; I'm something more... and less. I can appear in physical form, like the rare times I visit my old friends, but mostly I stay ghostly. It's a lot easier to explore places and observe what's going on when you don't have to explain your presence.

There are two of them, a male and a female. I belong to him, so I don't see as much of her. In my mind, I call them the Archons. Everyone loves them. Supposedly. Yeah, Big Mommy and Big Daddy. Nobody suspects the truth about Mommy and Daddy Archon: that all we are to them, and to their real children, is a big family food factory. We are their food.

Mister Archon is a giant, a four-metre-tall, reddish humanoid with a pair of long, black horns on his head. I have a hard time remembering what Missus Archon looks like. I think she's rather similar, except bluish. She tends to the demon-babies most of the time. Her partner is in charge of us slaves, it seems. I can tell their union is one of expedience and barely-disguised dysfunction. They both have terrible tempers, and I suspect they hate each other, but on the surface, everything is okay.

I only have one trick up my sleeve when it comes to getting back at them. Sure, I can play little tricks, get them to go at each other, but that's too sneaky for my tastes. I want them to know it's me.

I grab Mister Archon by the horns.

When I do that, he's totally helpless. It's amazing. 'Cause normally, he's this huge, intimidating beast of a being, and those horns are like the dot on the 'i' of his incredible fearsomeness. But they're so long that if I grab on close to the ends, he can't even reach me. He's reduced to a flailing, stamping, wall-banging, totally out-of-control, impotent mess. And who can respect a guy that suddenly goes apeshit like that for no apparent reason? His wife doesn't, that's for sure.

Maybe she'll take over from him, lock him up so he'll stop being such a public embarrassment. I daresay she could do it; despite his braggadacio, she does seem to be the one wearing the pants. I don't know how the slaves are going to react, but she controls the monkey army for sure.

I don't know what else to do. I don't have a plan. I don't see much hope for a revolt, much less a successful one. Maybe I'm a fool. But what do I have to lose? My life? Hah. I'm a ghost already. Maybe some miracle will happen, deus ex machina comes to set things right. The probabilities don't favour us, but maybe the universe does. That's my only hope.

In the meantime, all I can do...

... is grab the devil by the horns.

War is bad. We don't like war. Never wanted it.

(I've never tried any hallucinogens, and I don't feel the need to do so, although I am OK with people using them as a shortcut [and only as a shortcut] to experiences and states of mind that might otherwise require lifetimes of work to attain.)

I dreamed about mushrooms last night. As far as I know, they weren't entheogenic mushrooms, just the regular, edible kind.

I was walking through a spruce forest. It was shady and the ground was covered in brown needles. There was hardly any green to be found. A rather dead place. I had a woven basket, and I was wandering around, looking for mushrooms. For some strange reason, the bottom of the basket was covered in little rocks. It's like I wanted to feel some kind of weight in there, even if it wasn't the thing I was after. All I had found so far was one little piece of a mushroom, just enough to prove that there were mushrooms to be found. After much fruitless wandering, I was feeling quite discouraged.

A couple of elderly women passed by, dressed in white, carrying white baskets that appeared to be quite full of mushrooms. They looked with amusement at my basket of rocks. They didn't speak with their mouths, but I caught the impression of a thoughtform:

"Those rocks'll make a tasty soup, I'm sure! (laughter) Good luck, boy. Keep looking!"

Somehow, I knew in my heart that I had to keep searching and not give up. So I kept on, guided by this inner knowing that it would all be worth it in the end. And sure enough, I finally found a whole cache of mushrooms as big as my hand, already sliced and stacked in neat piles. As soon as I saw it, I remembered: I picked these myself earlier!

There were more mushrooms than I could even fit into my basket!

So I dumped out the stupid rocks and started to fill my basket with precious, delicious mushrooms... the treasure and the true, spiritual food of angels!

If anyone's been wondering why I chose “New Renaissance” as the defining term for my recent series of posts on influential personalities, the answer is simple.

It's an unoriginal, pretentious, forced-sounding name that borders on the ironic, and yet, in a very deep sense, it does capture the essence of what I see beginning to happen. And yes, I did pretty much just pull it out of my ass. So much the better!

Because of something I caught wind of today (the 2nd of November as I write) concerning an upcoming significant date in (one or more of) the Mayan calendar(s), I checked my pitifully meager offline resource to see what, if anything, it had to say about this. As I expected, there was nothing specifically about November 8, 2009 – but there was a short piece on the Sixth Day of the Galactic Underworld, which just so happens to be ending right about now. And wouldn't you know it, the Sixth Day is also called the “Renaissance.” Synch!

Those doggone Mayan calendars keep cropping up; I find them impossible to ignore. Not to mention that their way of structuring and assigning meaning to time actually makes much more sense to me than this arbitrary Gregorian calendar we seem to be stuck with.

The 260-day Tzolk'in, for instance, gave me a whole new insight into who I am and what I'm all about in this particular lifetime. My Gregorian birth date translates as 13 Cimi. Thirteen is the sacred number of ascension and the completion of all things. Cimi is Death, the Transformer, which is big on transitions. Both are highly appropriate to my sense of purpose and my life experience thus far; taken together, they do as neat a job of summing me up as such a simple system could ever do.

To me, Death implies Rebirth. Rebirth = Renaissance. We are witnessing the steady and sure Death of everything that is out of resonance with what's coming. Some things will not survive at all; others must evolve or suffer the same fate. This is good. We don't want to bring the nasty baggage with us, and not only do we not want to, we can't. Those who insist on trying will find out just how futile that is. At the same time, seeds that have been lying dormant for as long as our “modern” dark age has existed are now sprouting. In the end, those seeds will spring up luxuriantly and exuberantly through the mulch of decay, bringing about the hard-won, glorious Rebirth of humanity.

You might be asking how I can state those things with such seeming certainty. My friend, these things are written. They are written in ancient heirloom teachings from eras past. They are written deep in humankind's genetic, racial memory. They are written in the movements of the heavenly spheres. They are written in the phenomena of the nature around us, if we but stop to observe and to ponder them. And from where I'm standing, these things are pretty much written on the wall. Not to mention in my heart, in the place that never, never knew a lie.

(At the same time, I don't want to pretend I'm totally free of any doubts about this thing. But those doubts come from a lower place. They're there to keep me on my toes and remind me how much work I still have to do on myself.)

I can't hope to convince anyone. I'm not equipped for that. But I can point you to some of the folks who might be able to help you convince yourself, if you're open to that.

I know, and I want to emphasize this, that everyone has their own truth, their own unique path to follow. This isn't about me trying to herd people onto my path. God forbid. Hell, I barely know what my path is. And I could be wrong about anything. The wise ones tell me to always be aware and to keep reminding myself of the eternal fact that I just... don't... know. The minute I forget that, I'm setting myself up for a fall. And falling hurts. But it's OK. Because everything is OK. We live and learn.

Now that I and my writing have once again come down to the level of a child, I think I shall call it a night.

P.S. The Dog Poet is rescheduled for tomorrow. Suspense getting to you? You know, you could just google it, find his stuff, and never glance at my blog again. (grin)

P.P.S. Children are amazing teachers. Seems like the younger and simpler they are, the more profoundly that holds true. ^^

Okay, so he's not really a face – I couldn't find a picture of the guy – but Clif High, if anyone, is a true renaissance man. He doesn't paint, but together with his associates (notably George Ure) he has almost single-handedly invented a whole new science: predictive linguistics. (Though it's a safe bet that some government agencies have probably developed their own versions of it for their own uses, wink wink.) Before anyone dismisses him as a quack, I'd like to point out that he's not proposing anything more radical or against the grain than the simple hypothesis that probable future events with high emotional impact can send ripples backward in time that subtly affect the word choices people subconsciously make in their everyday communications on the Internet. OK, that is pretty radical. But he's under no delusions of being able to actually predict the future, and he makes that very clear. What predictive linguistics can do is spot trends in language that, processed and interpreted, often appear to correlate strongly with events that happen later, right down to the specific timing and archetypal significance of the events.

(To demonstrate the principle that we're all a little bit psychic, just do some searching for references to the events of September 11, 2001 from before that date. You'll turn up the most uncanny references in the most unlikely places. It's hard to believe any common person had foreknowledge of the attacks, so a more plausible explanation is that these were psychic echoes reaching back in time, conceivably transmitted, propagated, and received through some kind of shared subconscious.)

Clif himself does a much better job of describing the technical process, but essentially you have a bunch of “spyders” or web bots constantly reading new material on the Internet, programmed to look for certain words and phrases and record the words and phrases that surround them. This generates a huge amount of raw data that becomes the input for “modelspace,” a computer-generated model of how language is being used. From there it's a matter of filtering out the noise, picking out the trends in word associations that might mean something, and trying to puzzle together just what the heck they mean. That process is messy, delicate, extremely complicated, heavily biased, and subject to a metric crapload of error.

Clif periodically publishes the results of this mad science in the Asymmetric Language Trend Analysis (ALTA) reports, which he makes available, complete with dire warning labels and a page's worth of fine-print disclaimers, for a very modest per-issue subscription fee. I ordered Volume 0, Issue 1 back in August, and I have to say he's not kidding with those warnings. If you do buy one yourself (you poor sap), don't distribute copies and don't post the text of it online. That messes up the modelspace with self-referential knots that Clif then has to lose sleep untying, and could threaten the whole project. Other than that, have fun scaring the bejeebers out of yourself! Yup, it's probably a good idea not to take any of it too seriously.

As an antidote to the intense negativity in his ALTA reports and to the crummy side of life in general, Clif recommends pie. In fact, he's earned himself the nickname of “pie guru.” This and many, many other highly worthwhile tidbits come out in his frequent radio interviews. I never cease to be amazed at the scope of the man's knowledge. He must have read thousands of books on all kinds of interesting topics.

Anyway, the reports aren't all doom and gloom. – Oops, I just caught myself about to copy-paste from the August 2009 report. Hmm, gotta put this in my own words. Well, there's a catch-all entity in modelspace for all the weird, unknown, unexplained, and officially denied stuff. For some reason, it's apparently less inaccurate than the other entities, and going by the report, we should be headed for some highly interesting times in that area. In fact, those times have already begun, with NASA obligingly having gone ahead with its absurd plan to “bomb” the moon. A funny choice of words for a funny little operation. “Looking for water?” Puh-leeze.

Also according to Volume 0, Issue 1, we should now (November 4-8, 2009) be in the minimum of a “low” period of “building” emotional tension, as opposed to a high, where the uptight energy gets released. Which could explain why I'm feeling almost euphoric about how things in general are going. Thinking back one year, to my twenty-fourth birthday and the election of Barack Obama, my emotions were very similar, although much stronger, at that time as well. Perhaps it's one of those echoes, going forward in time?

As a final note on Clif High's work thus far and as the segue to my next entry, the report contains references to a mysterious figure known as the “dog poet,” who is supposed to become a key personage in the coming “war” between the powers-that-be and the common folk. The report is quite circumspect as to the identity of this person, with Clif undoubtedly looking to provide just enough clues so that the aware can deduce who it is, without placing this individual at risk. Fortunately, though, the Dog Poet himself has since come forward, and has, I assume, not overly endangered himself by doing so. Who is he? Stay tuned and find out.

UPDATE: As a follow-up to this blog, do take a look at psychegram's related post Get Ready... Here Come the New Patriots and the comment section there. His is a voice of greater experience than mine. For a more in-depth discussion on Alex Jones as possible COINTELPRO, I recommend the Signs of the Times article Celestial Esoteric Stuff and The Socio-Political Nitty Gritty. Thanks to psychegram for that link.



YouTube: Alex Jones in Waking Life

The above clip from Waking Life (2001) is hardly a balanced or complete look at Alex Jones, but it shows what he's about. While notorious for his bullhorn antics (and who could forget the Joker incident?), he is, I contend, far more than just another angry white man venting on the airwaves. He represents a large and growing current in America today: a clearer awareness of the realities of politics, economics, and the plight of the common man, which is spurring many to become active in standing up for their rights and liberties, holding their elected officials accountable, and reducing their dependence on the maybe-not-so-dependable-after-all grid.

Alex has been on the radio since the early '90s and has produced a number of virally successful documentary films. His Info Wars website is one of the most popular alternative news sites on the 'net. In the past, mainstream media outlets wouldn't have given him so much as a sarcastic mention, but oddly enough, he has now appeared more than once on FOX Television. This is less surprising when you factor in FOX's massive propaganda campaign against the new administration. They probably figured a popular critic of the powers-that-be like Alex would pull in views and boost their cause. Or they just wanted a face of the conspiracy fringe to snicker at. (I didn't watch those segments, so I don't know what went down.) In any case, the man's got balls. The FOX network is deep, deep enemy territory for him. He hasn't forgotten how different their tune was under Bush Jr. He knows their game: divide and conquer; good cop, bad cop; Eastasia, Westasia; Democrat, Republican. He doesn't play that, he exposes it for the fraud that it is.

But the question is, is Alex Jones himself controlled opposition, a COINTELPRO psy-op? In the often paranoia-fueled drama of the conspirasphere, any rising star is a target for accusations of “shill” and “Pied Piper.” While I suspect the majority of such attacks are simply ego hurt and fear bug making the rounds, the question should nevertheless be addressed seriously.

Alex Jones is often loud, often angry, sometimes even uncouth. Well, when you've got a message you believe in and you think is important for people to hear, you might want to be loud. Anger? Hell, I got angry when I first found about a lot of the things Alex talks about. They're outrageous and they need to be stopped. Anger is a powerful emotional energy that can and should be put to constructive uses. It is also negative, unhealthy in the long run, and should probably be avoided if possible. As for the occasional rudeness, there is no excuse for that – but then, I haven't seen him make any. At least he humbly apologized to David Icke for calling him a “turd in the punch bowl.” Any other rude remarks he's made that I'm aware of have been aimed at people who, quite frankly, deserve a lot worse than that. (Although I personally couldn't bear to see anyone burned at the stake, even a mass murderer.)

Getting past the man himself and his very human faults, there is the matter of his actual message. I'm of the opinion that his message is quite appropriate for his audience, which I would venture to say is made up of pretty average, everyday people. He's not “mainstream” perhaps quite yet, but is at least on the verge of becoming so. These are quite often people who are just becoming more aware, who have graduated from the Pablum world of CNNBCABCBSFOX, but who aren't necessarily into ufology, energy healing, the paranormal, divination, other occult subjects, or the deepest, darkest, most disturbing recesses of conspiracy research. A lot of them subscribe, at least nominally, to one of the major organized religions. Naturally, there are limits to how far out on the fringe he can go and still be relevant to a significant portion of the populace. The ones who are so inclined will go elsewhere to seek out the fruit that Alex doesn't offer. So I don't see a problem with the limited extent of his territory.

As for how he handles the territory he's got... hmmm. Let's take a look.

Alex Jones talks a lot about 9-11 truth. That's a key issue for people to understand. What he doesn't talk about so much is the Israeli component. From what I've read, the WTC attacks were essentially Mossad operations, aided and abetted by elements of American intel (CIA). Cheney and Bush were in on it, obviously, as was anyone within a certain circle of power and influence. Very cloak-and-dagger, all of it, compartmentalized in the extreme, as all these kinds of sensitive, major ops are. There are so many angles to it, and so much secrecy around that whole group of events, that no one person could ever unravel it all. Is Israel important? Sure it is. But thanks to AIPAC and all the rest of the Zionists embedded in the highest levels of Washington and the corporate media, you can't talk about it without being accused of anti-Semitism. (False label; Semites are the native peoples of the region, i.e. the Palestinians.) You can face serious consequences for that. Besides, it's rumoured that Alex Jones's wife is Jewish. So cut the guy some slack, eh? The main point is there, and it's well made: 9-11 was an inside job. (By the way, the thinly-veiled anti-Jewish sentiments on some of the sites linked by Rense, but not by Jones, make me sick.)

“Swine flu” and financial meltdown. Big topics. Scary topics. Alex gets credit for going after Big Pharma and their so-called “vaccine” (money grab for sure, likely also another Darwinian depopulation scheme), as well as the political aspect of this latest iteration of the problem-reaction-solution formula to impose ever greater control over the populace. His sites carry advertisements for immune supplements like vitamin D and colloidal silver products, which are, in my mind, a better alternative than any vaccine (although you do want be sure you're not getting ripped off, so always do your own research first). The economic crisis has also been front-and-center on Alex's broadcasts. He features guests like Congressman Dr. Ron Paul, who's making great strides in his campaign to audit the Fed, and G. Edward Griffin, currency expert and author of The Creature from Jekyll Island. Alex believes that the devaluation of the dollar is paving the way for a global currency as part of the elite's drive for a worldwide totalitarian state, which I would certainly see as being the intent of some of those people. I don't think they'll ever succeed. Alex's solution is for people to buy precious metals to protect their savings, and to prepare for a breakdown of the urban food supply. Both are prudent precautions to take, but are really based on a worst-case scenario where things do get that dire. Better safe than sorry, I guess. Personally, though, my sense is that I'm going through the worst of it right now, due more to my own stupidity than to the wider economic situation. I think both your health and your finances are, on a fundamental level, much more closely linked to your state of mind than to whatever's going on around you.

Which brings me to a point I want to make about Alex Jones. If you listen to his show, it will affect your mind. In the case of somebody just waking up from the old consumer dream of Santa Claus and no tomorrow, the show acts as a sort of remedial course in reality, a cold shower. For someone who's already “awake,” though, I think the undercurrent of fear and urgency is reason enough to mostly tune out. There comes a point when those states of mind become counterproductive. On the occasions that I tune in, it's mostly for the entertainment value, not so much for the (yes, important) information he brings to the table.

The man is sincere and passionate, he hasn't sold out to corporate interests, and I certainly don't think he's a conscious psy-op agent. There is the useful-idiot angle, whereby it could be argued that the elite allow him to expose them to a certain extent in order to lay the psychic groundwork for carrying out their plans, and to get people into the vibration of fear and negativity, so that they expect to be treated badly, continue to think in terms of “Us vs. Them,” and inflate their mental image of the world elite into something much more powerful than they actually are. That's the biggest danger, and it's just something to be aware of. We've got one Alex Jones already, and thank goodness he's doing the work that he does, but there's no reason to become a thought-clone of him. Not that he even encourages that; he's always telling his audience to check up on the facts for themselves, read the available documentation, convince themselves of the truth of what he's saying – or prove him wrong.

I used to think that if the world really was the way Alex Jones portrays it, we'd all be doomed. Now, I think even his reality tunnel has a tangible light at the end. This is a war, he says, and we've been getting our asses kicked for a long time, but as surely as day follows night, the tides are turning. He's not giving in, and neither should any of us. Let's have the COURAGE to DREAM of something A HUNDRED TIMES BETTER than what we've had, and the WILL to DO what it TAKES to MOVE ourselves and the planet from HERE... to THERE.

God bless.