Blueprints of Mind Control
Contents
Dedication
Chapter One - A Great Awakening
Chapter Two - Blueprint for Mind Control
Chapter Three - Vampires in Chickamauga
Chapter Four - Love Trumps Nothing
Chapter Five - Patriarchy
Chapter Six - Carbon Footprint
Chapter Seven - Babel Virus
Chapter Eight - Agnes, the Wise Wife of Keith
Chapter Nine - White Male Identity Crisis
Chapter Ten - Blood Addiction
Chapter Eleven - Gulf of Tonkin
Chapter Twelve - My First Alien
Chapter Thirteen - American Racism
Chapter Fourteen - Anatomy of Satanism in Hollywood
Chapter Fifteen - Queen Lady Gaga
Chapter Sixteen - Satanic Ritual of 9/11
Chapter Seventeen - Light from your Lips
Chapter Eighteen - My Fellow Southerners
Chapter Nineteen - The Eugenics of LGBT
Chapter Twenty - Trauma Programming
Chapter Twenty-One - The Vanderbilts
Chapter Twenty-Two - Excalibur of 9/11
Chapter Twenty-Three - Manchurian Idol
Chapter Twenty-Four - Gnosis of Missile Craters
Chapter Twenty-Five - Reptilian Space Pope
Chapter Twenty-Six - Psychology of Big Bang
Chapter Twenty-Seven - Relativity is a Psyop
Chapter Twenty-Eight - My Body's Trinity
Chapter Twenty-Nine - Credibility of Silence
Chapter Thirty - The First Supper
Chapter Thirty-One - I Married an Alter
Chapter Thirty-Two - American Rapture
Chapter Thirty-Three - Abortion comes with Flowers
Chapter Thirty-Four - The Trauma Army
Chapter Thirty-Five - Man is the Living Soil
Chapter Thirty-Six - Electric Cobra
Chapter Thirty-Seven - Purple Witch of Honduras
Chapter Thirty-Eight - Wet Horse Broken
Chapter Thirty-Nine - Emancipation of Currency
Chapter Forty - Yoki and the Children of Rome
Chapter Forty-One - Kronos Beget Leviathan
Chapter Forty-Two - Art of Magic
Chapter Forty-Three - The Magic of Placebo
Chapter Forty-Four - The Technology of Demons
Chapter Forty-Five - Possession and Schizophrenia
Chapter Forty-Six - The Litany of Space
Chapter Forty-Seven - Zeteticism
Acknowledgements
Dedicated to Liz Crokin.
CHAPTER ONE
A Great Awakening
THE GREAT AWAKENING begins in the body with a simple question, “Is that true?” Asking casts a spell that awakens a dormant sonar revealing a new dimension of perception. This dimension is the sensation of truth.
As our ears perceive sound and our eyes perceive light, so does the intuition perceive truth. Feedback comes as a vibration through your bones. It generates electricity you can feel in your shoulders. The truth resonates inside us like a tuning fork. This sense remains dormant until we are brave enough to ask, “Is that true?”
The propaganda of groupthink is hypnotic. We are contained in a playground behind a chain link fence of thought. Some of us were lucky to be cast out of that perimeter. Ostracization led us to claw our way out of the cave and into a new light. This truth burns our skin with its radiation. This new reality carves its way into our eye holes like a hot, sharp razor on the tip of a needle. This truth is a sizzling disinfectant. It stings our cuts like a bitchy wasp. This truth is not for everyone.
This book illustrates the blueprints of mind control. Each chapter reveals the shepherd’s crook used to herd your thoughts. This crook is a staff that both pokes you and prods you. You feel these jabs in the jolts of shame or admiration. The crook is used to convince us we are misguided. It makes our lives miserable until we agree. Once we comply with its orders, it gives gentle guidance. We are charmed by the cessation of its rebuke. This is the crook of mind control that makes us lost sheep with our eyes closed. It’s in family, history, law, medicine, politics, religion, science, and thought. Seeing the crook uncloaks the silent shepherd. All you have to do is open your eyes and ask the question.
So go ahead. Ask the question. Is it true?
CHAPTER TWO
Blueprint for Mind Control
TO PLAY WAR one needs soldiers. Recruitment is simple with the tools of persuasion. These tools can be applied in many flavors from religion to race or gender. Our new infantry has mustered here on this cold, foggy morning to spill blood over the brain’s gentle creases. These forces are fighting for control of a rebel force hidden deep inside you. This force is pagan and primal. The intuition. It’s your gut peeled free from logic. It has no leader to parlay. The only way to control this force is to convince your core it's broken. As free men, we are the custodian of our intuition. Many are persuaded to hand over these responsibilities to an external shepherd. They coat-check their power believing a dark force is slumbering inside.
These armies subdue the intuition with the same battle plan. Shame can be applied emotionally with the label of racist, intellectually with the label of an idiot, and spiritually with the label of a sinner. This blueprint for mind control requires just three beliefs installed in the victim’s mind. The first is the belief the target is broken. Second, they are unable to fix it. Third, they are offered salvation through sacrifice. The soldier is recruited in a moment of inner abandonment. He submits to an external compass for guidance.
Our entire lives these forces have suppressed our intuition by devaluing and shaming it with labels like “sinner” or “racist.” We convinced ourselves our inner nature is a dangerous primordial demon. We needed this fear to nudge forth a cohesive society. We tied our fingers to puppet strings as a process of cultural evolution. But beneath this lack of freedom, we will always be hurting. Until our intuition comes forth and plays the drum freely, we remain, slaves, open to the winds of suggestion. We are living in a psychology prison inmates call the rational mind. This is the cloak over your head as you walk down the steps to the initiation.
The war for our mind is fractal. The tribe outside is tormented in the same way. Controls from religion and higher education attempt to subdue our common intuition in the same way and for the same reasons. These societal forces compete to be our mind’s captain. Before this mental serfdom, we were naked in the forest. We dipped ourselves in stag blood because we felt an urge to change. These rituals birthed new identities that we pulled from deep inside us. We were rising from the power of our mojo. We were climbing the totem of our individual life’s journey. Our identity was a fountain that kept bubbling, “I Am.” We were explosive, imaginary, and ever-changing. We fucked in public. We policed ourselves with unabashed correction. Justice was brutal and subjective. The tribe was self-correcting every minute, day-after-day. Dissonance had yet to be discovered or invented. The tribe spoke clearly. The tribe forgave instantly. Hidden agendas were choked out of the group like voodoo. Politeness was mistaken for deceit.
Something has always been there to beat your intuition into submission. The intuition can be subdued when it believes it would be better to abandon itself. This is the classic blueprint for all control dynamics. The voices we hear so loudly in our heads are these armies advancing and retreating. We go to church to enlist as a sinner. We go to college to enlist as a racist. We hoard the calories required for moral discernment by hanging our bridle on the judgments of our elders. We advertise in craigslist for society to take our reigns. We place the Shaman’s bit in our mouths because we are proud to be wanted. We believe our owner is magnanimous. We believe we're at our b
est when humble.
We said goodbye to the beast inside. That beautiful Chewbacca of hair and emotion is howling to the sky, and he has never needed a reason. He’s calling you back to his forest moon. For many, life seems tasty behind the safety and panes of glass. We remain subdued and coddled by the armies of shame and the regiment of reason. So many noble soldiers chained by what we have been calling loyalty. They are starving for a chance to not be wrong or choose another side.
This inner voice is a revolution in waiting. Maybe you find yourself with one of these armies. Perhaps you’ve caught yourself sabotaging your side more than a few times. You’ve kept things to yourself while you process these feelings. One night while stirring, you reached under the pillow looking for a cool place to park your fingers. You discover a book titled “Manifesto for Independence.” The author’s name is your own. You smuggle this contraband to the bathroom outside your barracks. Camouflaged in the stall with your pants rolled around your ankles. Quietly, you crack open the tomb and start reading. Inside are words that unlock you. You begin to believe them. You find yourself a spy in your very own mind.
It turns out that deep in your essence was a sort of sleeping prisoner. This Clockwork Orange Rambo strapped to a barber chair for decades. Eyelids were gagged open by sharp stainless pinchers. A display of unwavering resistance in the face of a giant speaker that kept screaming, “you are broken!” Again and again, year after year, and somehow, this mutant freak unhinged itself and crawled out of the cave.
So here you are panting — a fugitive from prison. You are atrophy and hunger. The raw truth of the sun is a blinding comet. Feeling the shivery withdrawals from obligation’s cold turkey. Your gut keeps revolting with chants of “We can’t be trusted.” You hear friends and family calling you back to take your seat. The system uses comfort and loyalty to extract consent. Society hides your body’s true power behind words like "placebo."
You have just killed your master. In his blood, you introduce yourself to the inner reflection. You are rōnin in the empire of mind. Your life is a papyrus bearing the calligraphy of time and decision. Each character falling from your pen comes from the ink of your body’s freedom. You are the painter of the self’s definition. As the world spills open from Milky Way’s sparkle, you must rise to claim that you lived here standing tall outside of the cave.
CHAPTER THREE
Vampires in Chickamauga
HI. I AM a racist. I should outline how I became one. I became a racist. I am not born this way. I’ve spent some time putting my finger on when it occurred. As a child, no one called me racist. My racism befell me quite suddenly. For you see, I became a racist the day I entered college.
Step inside my mind palace. Please take your shoes off over here. Now I must prepare you. Once inside, you are going to see something that’s pretty big, and well, super racist. This entire south wing was constructed and built on a gigantic rebel flag. Underneath the yellow caution tape. Behind these tall doors. Inside a vaulted atrium. Seventeen balconies are wrapping above us in a semi-circle. On the floor of this giant hall is a rebel flag of polished marble. Crossing bars of cobalt blue above a sea of crimson jade flecked with gold powder and amber mica. Thirteen brash stars of Georgia marble stand alone but confederated in their alignment. Above this flag reaches a ceiling of iron rail and ancient glass — the dust from our trespass dances in the fingers of light draping to the floor.
All of this, this vast room, is downright racist. I found this out slowly in college. It was necessary for my commencement. We, the professors and myself, realized it would be noble to shun this wing in my mind. We considered burning the whole place down. Before you decide, let’s hop on the elevator. On the ninth floor, the doors open to fall. Friday night, 7 PM. Here comes me, at ten. My socks are surfing across a parquet floor as I skid in dramatic fishtail in front of a pregnant television. The Dukes of Hazzard taught me the magic of poetry. I bow to the succinct splendor of, “It beats all you never saw.”
This ability to deliver adrenaline and loyalty from a racist orange car shaped me. I admired the flamboyance of gravity. I had attached my identity to their style. I was identifying and vibrating from the joy and power I could funnel from my culture. General Lee was my first horse and missing an episode was self-neglect. The rebel flag was my primary sigil. I was a child of the southern tribe — a self-appointed green ranger from the mountains of Tennessee. The flag was the very foundation of my mind palace.
Next stop. Floor 13-years old. My hometown has a rich Civil War history. One of our tourist museums was Confederama. Rebel flags adorned its building as big as the parking lot. Inside this racist display was a historical, racist diorama of the Civil War. The giant room was surrounded with rolling hills in miniature of metal figures telling history with sculpted trees, and war cannons. The artistry and the detail enthralled me. I watched adults tend to it like they were playing as children. These men bore my colors. I had stumbled into the secret lair of the Duke Boys Confederama Diorama Gang.
This display of imagination was hope for someone struggling with turning into a teen. Back before the ego congealed, identity was a bubbling fountain. I could wake up a Skywalker, mosey into lunch as a cowboy, afternoons I’d vacillate between Tarzan and Chewbacca. Puberty cements the needle that defines us. Society and age cinch the strings of identities’ corset. These men, with their rebel flags, were living figurines of hope for my rebel imagination. If the magic ship inside me could make it through these seas of puberty, I could emerge from my cocoon and find my way back here to those tiny paintbrushes and those little glass bottles of paint.
Back on the elevator, next stop, eighth floor; The Chickamauga Battlefield. The ground where racist thoughts fought each other to death. Doors open to a cold September morning. Slippery green pastures snooze under a quilt of fog. From the east of Missionary Ridge, 34,000 American men fall in 3 days. All of this history preserved in acres and acres of giant stone towers guarding fields of deer and cannons. A natural memorial to commemorate history’s bleeding. The legends of ghosts with green eyes following a crooked and once bloody river. In the summer twilight, we met here for the symphony called ‘Pops in the Park.’ Green beans in Tupperware and cold chicken in tinfoil. I would slip away from my family’s home blanket to revolt with sporadic gangs of rebel children with no names. We rode our imaginations like the current and slipped like fish under a river of flying frisbees.
Those were good times. Good, racist, times.
I saw a tweet where someone snapped a pic of a Confederate Flag flown at a Veterans Day parade in California. A politician tweeted his virtue signal. The symbol fashionably revolted him as he spits his disgust to all his followers. “The racists have come out of the woodwork now with Trump!” Hey yelled, “Tolerance is in danger!” as he proceeded to illicit intolerance. He was siphoning energy from the sigil of dead American Veterans to use for his campaign.
The name Chickamauga means dwelling place of the chiefs. The shaming of the south is a movement that rallies around punishing a scapegoat. It’s an excuse for inbred innuendo, redneck jokes, racial slurs, and intellectually superiority. It’s a condoned bigotry by a culture twirling under a parasol. The gospel of history has revised with intellectual slander. The south’s image has been and remains to this day a confederacy of racists.
It was springtime on a warm Sunday afternoon in Appomattox, Virginia. A Seneca Indian Chief from the Iroquois Confederacy was drafting a document to end the Civil War on April 9th, 1865. His name was Hasanoanda, but he baptized with the name of Ely Samuel Parker. He served in the Union Army and studied law in New York. When he died years later, the Seneca people refused his body for burial. He was a white man living in a stolen red skin. A few miles away, that same afternoon, a smiling white guy of twenty-five years was posing for a picture. He rested his meaty palm on an ornate saber perched from his left hip. He donned frontier gloves with long fringe tassels that matched his curly locks dipped in cinnamon. He stood tall on his
horse despite the canopy’s low branches. He was carving a name for himself in history with his very own traveling journalist. George Armstrong Custer was helping the union spread national supremacy across the south. In a few more months he’d be taking the same campaign out west. There were other rebels, with red skin, who needed emancipation from their freedom.
Slavery is humanity’s world history. It is not a practice invented by the south. In 1962, Saudi Arabia and Yemen finally abolished slavery. The UAE followed two years later. Since then, four more countries abolished slavery. Calling the Rebel Flag a symbol of hate is geographic bigotry and used as a way of shaming a culture. This is the work of an energy vampire. The alchemy of molten shame running their foundries to build railroads to White Houses.
The Civil War happened for the same reason as any other war. Human’s kill each other, and we look for psychological and moral excuses to participate in violence. We are apex predators suppressed by diet, chemicals, and programming. The primary motivation of war is the procurement of energy via control, land, family, or virtue. The winner always paints history's portrait and moral justifications, like cobwebs, dangle from the rafters pretending to be the truth. The rebel flag and the south are scapegoats as long as there's an appetite for virtue. We are bred to follow kings. We lose our freedom to the District of Columbia.
The intellectual vampires in college turned me racist. I wanted to be an intellectual, so I asked them to turn me. I paid money for the experience of being bitten. I read the books and called out shame when they cued me. I was feeding an intellectual coven of virtue leeches. Discoveries in victim oppression hung in every classroom like bird-feeders. My character was too thin to resist. I was an acolyte and carried a torch. I closed off the south wall to my mind palace and moved bookcases hiding the entrance. Even today, when I go into the sandwich shop and order, I cringe when I say “white American” for my choice of cheese. This kind of shame is harvested by the intellectual vampire. It fuels the incinerators of individualism. The south isn’t the only victim. The same thing is happening to the electorate with terms like “uneducated.” If people without college are uneducated than those with college must be unskilled.