Blueprints of Mind Control Page 6

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The Vanderbilts

  MY DOG BUTTER is mostly an Australian Shepherd. Years ago, I was visiting a farm in Tennessee. It was getting late, and he broke free from the property. He ran up a hillside at least a mile away and began to gather cows in the setting sun. He gathered five of them and corralled them back down to the barn. He had transformed into this strange strategic wonder dog of nipping and yelping. He was fearless under their stomping hooves as he placed each one inside the fence. He returned when he was finished to sit by my feet. The whole time this was happening I was trying to command him to stop. He would not listen. Butter was not my dog anymore. He was running a program. He was an alter. The cows and the sunset had triggered him. I have had this dog my whole life. I assure you he has not been to cow school. We say these abilities are bred into the genes, but science does not claim to understand the exact mechanism. Genes hold a variety of programs locked inside a morphic resonance. Things like hereditary mannerisms, a spider’s web, a corralling sheepdog, or even a ritual murder are all examples of programs. In every case, the bloodline is the hard drive.

  A mind control alter is essentially an algorithm that runs through the nervous system. We are all born with alter programming. Like a spider’s web, some of our skills are recalled, not learned. These skills are ancient trauma programming hard-coded into our epigenetics. Alter programs are installed through the cycles of trauma and survival. Evolution itself is an intense, yet slow form of trauma programming.

  How do you make an alter? You induce trauma. You keep inducing this until the automaton emerges to the surface. This is the essence of trauma programming. To preserve a trauma program hereditarily, you use a transmittable bloodline. The Rhesus (Rh-Negative) blood type is the best-reported vessel for hereditary preservation. Royal blood is programmed blood that’s been passed down for centuries. Real historical figures like Vlad the Impaler were programmed as alters with cannibalism. It made their family bloodline ruthless and successful. Powerful families stayed powerful by raising psychopathic killers who would protect their legacy with brutality. This behavior emerged as a form of elite survival. Our nations are still ruled by these same alter families because of this trauma programming. Trauma runs below our consciousness. We don't have to be aware of it for it to unfold. An alter is a zombie under an ancient spell of energy, frequency, and vibration.

  There are thirteen Dark Mothers. Gloria Vanderbilt is one of them. She knew eleven by name and only seven in person. She often dreams about her Dark Sisters. There is always a big circle in a vast open cavern. All of them are contracting together in a ritual. They are pushing out their offerings in unison. Gloria is on all fours like an animal. She is clawing at her silk ritual drop cloth. Her ass is as high in the air as she can place it. Like the other mothers, she is presenting herself to the center circle. She is birthing her offering for the Queen of Darkness. All of the Dark Mothers are contracting in unison. Giant drums of taunt human skin are pounding in the background. Gloria wants to know who is at the center. She turns to behold the face of the Queen of Darkness only to find herself awake in her bed. She always woke at this part. Gloria was horizontal and defeated. She asked herself again why she could not see this dream through.

  Gloria did not know she was an alter. She knew she had these dreams, but she considered herself a profoundly spiritual artist. She had all the money in the world to convince herself she was gifted. Her family was among the chosen. She believed her purpose was to share her artistic vision of pattern and form. She was a trendsetter. Gloria never considered ritualistically killing one of her children. Just like my dog Butter, she had been programmed a long time ago. All she needed was to hear the trigger, and she would run the trauma program known as Dark Mother.

  Gloria could not rest her mind comfortably anywhere inside a solid patch of color. Any form of stillness or serenity drove her mad with rabies. Every surface of her life had to be splintered and minced with a pattern. She found the darting of her eyes to be soothing. Gloria’s DNA was vibrating from centuries of programmed trauma. She was a cauldron of madness fueled by the trappings of dynasty and dopamine.

  The Satanic ritual murder of Carter Vanderbilt Cooper began one afternoon while he was napping. Gloria turned to page 25 of her The New Yorker Magazine and read her trauma program trigger. It was a single sentence from a story called White Angel. She instantly stopped all of her jitterings as her mind went still over the story. It was July 22nd, Mary Magdalene feast day. Her pupils had dilated into sunken black saucers. She started her program and transformed into a methodical spider. Gloria folded a finger inside the magazine and told herself she must share it with Carter. He had come home to mourn the recent loss of a girlfriend. Gloria found Carter on the bed in his older brother’s room. “I’d like to read to you for a bit,” she said, as she sat calmly beside him. Carter noticed something different about his mother, but she interrupted him saying, “You’ll feel better.” She opened the magazine and began reading the story of the White Angel.

  Carter had heard this same story as a boy. He did not remember it though. Not yet. It was a tale of two brothers, a voyeuristic sex act between them, a dose of L.S.D., and it ends with one of them bleeding to death after bursting through a plate glass window. Carter listened to his Dark Mother read him his trigger. Carter’s pupils also dilated as his biology spun up his alter. He became compelled to take himself out the window. Carter rushed over to their 14th story balcony and straddled himself over the railing. He turned to his mother and shouted, “Fuck You! … Will I ever feel again?” Carter let go and fell to his death. The ritual of the Dark Mother was over. The program had ended.

  Gloria didn’t register his fall. Nor did she look over the edge to try and face it. She had already picked up a phone and was dialing. She caught herself and hung up quickly. She just stood there, in the same room as what just happened. The calmness of her alter was still leaving her body. The splintered banshee had returned to haunt her visions. She decided it was time to redecorate. She shook her head abruptly to reset. She again dialed the building lobby and felt inconvenienced by the wait for an answer. Her fingers were trembling. She would be feeling the weight of her son’s death soon. If only in tiny confetti pieces.

  Gloria Vanderbilt is a bloodline alter. Her entire life was made to run this trauma program. When we say, “These people are stupid,” alters don’t know what they do. They are born fractured like a drone awoken to service the hive till slaughter. To serve the family, each of them must be empty inside. Satan is a vacuous machine, not a consciousness. The Dark Mother, Gloria Vanderbilt, has reinforced her bloodline’s programming with another generation of trauma. She still doesn’t know what happened.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Excalibur of 9/11

  LYRA WAS SEVEN. It was lunchtime on a Friday and a sunny day for November 22nd. Her father was speaking to the manager in the service station’s office, and Lyra had just met them in the doorway. She decided they would enjoy her interruption. She saw a gun reach out above her like a tree branch. A trigger was pulled, and a bullet went straight through her father’s temple. Like a cow in a slaughterhouse, he fell instantly. The floor thumped where the leaking sack of organs had just landed. Her father was gone now. Lyra was frozen when she heard the next shot. She was still staring at the last place her father’s head had been. A clock on the wall remained in the vision showing it was 12:38. She saw the black second hand snap a single notch past twelve as the second body hit the floor. This one did not creak when it landed. It slumped quietly on top of the first one. The entire thing was over in a breath. Lyra was scooped up in a rush. Her world turned into a sideways blur as she bounced like luggage in the arms of the kidnapper.

  That was seventeen years ago, and Lyra is trembling in the warm sunlight. She’s an adult now, but sometimes she can’t stop shaking. Her shoulder blades will vibrate like a bell that can’t be muffled. It happens mostly around lunchtime when it’s sunny, or there
’s a clock around. She realizes she can’t drive in this condition, so she leaves the truck running and slides across the bench seat making herself a passenger. Lyra is waiting for Sam. She thinks he saved her life when her father was killed by a magic bullet. Sam is saving Lyra right now from the evil people in the bank. Lyra calls Sam her uncle. When she explains how her father died, they always look up to Sam like he’s a hero.

  The glass doors of the bank kick open as Uncle Sam drags a man by his necktie out into the street. He takes the short-barreled shotgun off the man’s chest and points it back inside to fire a cluster of shrapnel. The glass doors burst like a pinata and tiny glass beads explode in every direction. Sam’s mask is pushed up on his forehead now. He sees Lyra in the passenger seat and yells for her to open his door. She has already opened it when she hears the next burst. The stranger in the necktie is now a tendered carcass on the blacktop. Her uncle throws a large duffle into the truck bed, puts the transmission in gear, and drives over the bleeding speed bump. Lyra sees a person in her door mirror she used to remember. She has lost the power of reflection.

  That was yesterday, and Lyra stopped counting bodies a long time ago. This is her life now. She’s sequestered in an empty barn surrounded by a field of abandoned weeds as high as her elbows. She is waiting for it to get dark while she digs a trench of oatmeal out of the bottom of a metal cup. Sam is spread out snoring comfortably on the bench seat with the doors open. She is in her twenties now and addicted to trauma. She would be dead if she weren’t.

  After sunset, Lyra left the seclusion of the barn and crossed the field towards the creek. She was spreading herself a path through the grass like a curtain. She washed her armpits and thought about the man in the necktie. Sam said he was going to kill both of them. For the first time, she wonders if that were true. She reminds herself that Sam isn’t her uncle. Yesterday was the first time she saw him kill someone with his mask off.

  What could you say to Lyra right now to awaken her? Could you say anything at all? Could you approach her as a stranger and have a rational conversation about what happened to her dad? Would she trust you if you told her Sam was the one who did it? At what point do we call Lyra an accomplice? Is she supporting her Uncle? She can reflect, but does she? Can she? At what point is it not okay for her to go along with the trauma program? All we have is a clock on the wall that tells us what time it is. We see another anniversary come around and we tense up until it passes. We can do more now.

  JFK and 9/11 were satanic ritual murders. Our country is a zombie in the trance of those traumas. We are a nation of trauma survivors. Our elected Congress walks in public darkness about what happened. They dangle toys like racism and tennis shoes to distract us. For fifty-five years our politicians and media have pretended it was “a magic bullet.” They have pretended it was “a dozen box cutters.” They have pretended an office fire pulls a building. They pretended WMDs were the motivation for invasion. We are all addicted to the lies of trauma. It opens doors for them and makes us passive obedient and comfortable. It drives us into an abandoned barn to hide out until sundown. Whom does a child of trauma serve but the person she thinks will protect her?

  The moment you awaken to the truth of America, your entire world shatters. Everything around you becomes tainted in blood and murder. It gets harder, and it feels darker. We live in a psychopathic propaganda-driven playground where they lie to us for sport. Evil is sleeping on a leather bench seat while we dig for oatmeal. We are a trembling seven-year-old locked inside a fifty-five-year long nightmare. Even our salvation is tainted when we understand our complicity. Imagine the distance required to slide us out of the passenger seat and back behind the wheel as the driver. This can only happen with the strength of reflection. Man’s most potent weapon is compassion. This compassion is a crucible of power; the very source of love’s gravity. Truth is a flaming sword called Excalibur. Wherever we point it, darkness sizzles. To awaken is to pull this sword from the stone. We are making truth king again. We are reclaiming this land in the spirit of truth as intended.

  May we raise two towers in our hearts this September 11th. May we harness the power of compassionate reflection. The first tower is JFK. Raise it in your mind now. Rise it out of the waters of reflection. You know it wasn’t a disgruntled communist working in a bookstore. You know it was our government. Keep this tower up in your mind’s reflection. Call it the north tower. Tower 1, the first trauma.

  The second tower is 9/11. Raise the memory of 2,996 people in both buildings. See the lie of the impossible phone calls, a dozen box cutters disabling the world’s most powerful air-defense system. See the lie of a boxcutter taking out four commercial airplanes, five buildings, two skyscrapers, and the Pentagon. See the day after trillions of dollars missing. See a Bush son nodding in approval. See the group of Israelis celebrating the documentary. See four more world banks falling. See three more countries change hands. See a splintered nation walking in trauma trying to find its reflection. This is the South Tower. Tower 2, the second trauma.

  America is trying to remember. Pull Excalibur from your stone and point it straight into the darkness. Awareness is a flaming sword of truth. Give it your passionate fire as a beacon. Those still under the satanic spell will find our light and stop shaking long enough to remember. Let your reflection be a sacred lake. Take up this holy sword and wield it. We have to wake up now. Every one of us. It’s time to wake up.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Manchurian Idol

  I HEARD RUMORS of the blinding genius of Barack Obama long before he was elected. He had a talent for giving speeches that sounded pleasing. He stretched the oratory from his beak like a refined chewing gum. He wagged his finger like a hotdog weiner while he preached. He sounded fantastic as a tenor. He rose from the corrupt pit of Chicago winning each election by disqualification or landslide. The party’s blue cardinals saw their fortune in the white smoke. Barack Obama was the Democrats' new pope.

  Every atheist I’ve met forgets that faith is an involuntary muscle. Lungs expel with faith so they can fill back up. Every breath is a belief in each lung’s resurrection. Faith is the clutch in our transmission. Atheism has excommunicated faith from the lab and the classroom. It turns our politics into a game of admiration. This is what happens when there’s nothing to worship but narcissism. Barack Obama won the Nobel Prize in Identity. Barack Obama is snake oil on a pedestal. He is the bottled tincture of mind control blotted on our minds. He is a Manchurian shame idol collecting reverence among the intellectuals. They drop 2% of their net worth in the anti-god offering plate.

  We are surrounded by false idols. They live here on Mt. Olympus behind a fancy gate. Obama vs. McCain was Manchurian vs. Manchurian. These puppets dance in more than just our politics. Culture is riddled with prophets. Einstein and Hawking. Nye and Tyson. Madonna and Britney. Man needs belief to run like a gasoline. If we don’t believe in ourselves, or God, we believe in puppets. There is a reason we don’t talk about creation. When people think there is no God, they assemble themselves and choose one.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Gnosis of Missile Craters

  IF YOU CAN see a hunter in full camouflage, you are using the power of gnosis. This requires an understanding of hunting equipment and the shape of the human body. It is only through this wisdom that you can discern the danger from the scenery. Once you understand the threat, you know its shape in the wild. This is the power of gnosis.

  We can use gnosis to find the psychopathic elite entrenched in our government. The truth of the Lusitania gives us gnosis into the Gulf of Tonkin. The Gulf of Tonkin into Pearl Harbor. Pearl Harbor into JFK. JFK into 9/11. The clues are everywhere once we accept the possibility. Our eyes must be willing to see the danger. They must awaken from the false reality of being safe. If we don’t do this, the trauma will keep ringing like a bell.

  A vast human trafficking network was uncovered in Haiti. Laura Silsby was caught on its border kidnapping thirty-three children
during a natural disaster. Her camouflage was a humanitarian mission rescuing orphans. Just like the hunter, she was hiding in plain sight. Once you know the danger, it becomes easier to accept elite psychopathy is real.

  When you look at the damage to the Pentagon on 9/11, your first thought would be to accept the narrative that a Boeing 757 hit and disintegrated on impact. You might also accept the narrative that Flight 93 went down in Shanksville and also disintegrating on impact. The power of gnosis allows us to unfold the picture. Understanding the psychopathic threat reveals details like the light poles still standing at the Pentagon, or an eyewitness report of a “tiny plane” no bigger than a vehicle in Shanksville. One can use gnosis here to reveal the true story of what happened. Gnosis searches online to reveal the Air Force JASSM. Our military stocked 2,000 of these autonomous air-to-ground precision missiles as early as 1996. A JASSM could hit the Pentagon yet still be small enough to dodge the streetlights and disintegrate on impact. This same missile in Shanksville left its signature crater in the field. If the plane parts are missing, there were no planes. This is what gnosis gives you when you ask, “is that true?”

  Awaken your gnosis so that others may awaken theirs. Let’s uncover psychopathic rat holes together. All it takes is the wisdom to understand the threat is real. This tells us what to look for, and the enemy reveals. Exercise this skill daily in public. Call bullshit when you see it. Make it uncomfortable to ignore gnosis. Wear it like a handgun in a western saloon. Remind everyone there is danger in the wilderness. The illusion of safety is the camouflage of the hunter. He wants you to feel like everything is fine. Gnosis tells you otherwise.