Blueprints of Mind Control Page 7

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Reptilian Space Pope

  IF I WERE a psychopathic cabal with 21 trillion dollars, I would probably build a reptilian space pope. I’d splice the genes of a reptile with a human and create a hairless hybrid simpleton I could control from my cell phone. I’d power it with photosynthesis and keep it under a grow light for charging. I would use some of my trillions to create a mystique with books and movies. I would have complete control of my engineered archetype. I’d experiment with my space pope by inserting it into the collective mind. I’d adjust some dials here-and-there until I had it perfect.

  I’d want it to feel benevolent, reverent, and completely disarming. I’d want the public to think it was highly evolved. I’d give it a backstory that it came from the stars and was billions of years older than we were. I’d make it a little shorter to feel less-threatening. I’d give it big eyes like a kitten. I wouldn’t make it too muscular or even too attractive. It needs to feel disarming – like a sleek and sterile butler. My space pope could tell the whole world how bad they’ve been. It would say to us we destroyed our environment and it had no choice but to stop us. My space pope would convince all of us we were incapable of governing ourselves. It would tell us to dissolve our ego and enroll in its ascension program. It would offer the promise of higher consciousness. It would speak of transcending gender and personal boundaries. It would disarm people psychologically and make them feel selfish to resist. It would install the shame of xenophobia to override our natural defenses. It would recreate the very same prison pyramid we fight today except made out of beautiful crystal. It would distribute fame to anyone who obeyed the signal. It would designate a few humans as prophets and give them secret black-ops information to reveal to the others. It would be a religion of science, not faith. It would be dressed as a spiritual movement. It would put the entire planet into a yoke of oppression with everyone smiling. Everyone’s heads would be in the sky instead of looking over our shoulder.

  I would consider this reptilian space pope my great work. I might even call myself the wickedest man in the world for inventing it. I would claim to have opened a sacred portal on the magical lake in Loch Ness, Scotland. I would piggyback my space pope on the psychic energy of the magic sea dragon, Nessie. I would call my little space pope “LAM,” which is evil spelled backward. I would leave a sketch so people would know it was my creation. I would do everything I could to make LAM a reality.

  All of this, I would do, if I were the wicked, Aleister Crowley.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Psychology of Big Bang

  BIG BANG IS the only theory taught in school. It is the only opinion introduced or ever presented. It seems to be a form of mental programming. Consider the ramifications of believing in the Big Bang. It makes users feel small in a randomly exploded universe that’s 13.8 billion years old. We don’t feel important as a fish that crawled out of pond scum to fornicate into a monkey. We don’t like being considered creatures from a black lagoon. We lose confidence in our humanity as a tiny cinder of a random cosmic detonation. The psychology of Big Bang controls our every outlook. It puts us on the outskirts of a spiraling arm, orbiting the center of a vacuous black hole eating every form of light without prejudice.

  Moreover, none of this can be directly observed. These secrets were scribed by the hands of an elite few in academia. What is the weight of their feather on your mind?

  Halton Arp pulled up to the train tracks and shut off his motor. He could have made it across, but he wanted to feel the train’s energy. He got out and sat on the hood of his Buick with his arms folded. Stillness settled across his mind as he saw the train approaching. A giant steel centipede of wheels and coal was barreling down the track and Halton was as cool as a cucumber. He understood the universe and closed his eyes as the Doppler effect raised the pitch of the train whistle. He felt torque vibrating the road moments before a gush of wind smashed him in the face and kept pounding. He opened his eyes to a cold fast blur of metallic snake segments carving its thundering will through the atmosphere. Nothing can stop a train that’s coming. Halton feels the rumble of passage in his kneecaps. The arthritis was killing him, and he wanted to get home. The train was so loud Halton missed his cell phone ringing. There was a message waiting for him on his voicemail. He lost his job as the train was passing. He knew that call would come eventually. Halton didn’t believe in Big Bang.

  Big Bang cosmology is massively flawed. It contradicts itself in cosmic homogeneity. We see a universe of smooth peanut butter while a Big Bang model should look chunky. Our observation directly contradicts what we are taught yet the scientific community still enforces it. The Big Bang is cosmic dogma. The Big Bang is based on telescope redshift measurements. Redshift is like the Doppler Effect of the train whistle but with starlight instead of sound. The pitch of the redshift determines the direction and momentum of its signal. It’s why they think the universe exploded. It’s how we measure its size, shape, and distance. The redshift is the keystone of astrophysics and the cornerstone of Big Bang theory.

  Deep past the northern wing of the Milky Way galaxy is a little known binary star system. The bigger star is sucking the tail out of the smaller star like a frappuccino. Halton discovered these stars presenting a conflict of redshifts. They should be light years away from each other. Here they were, one drinking the other like a liquidated coconut. Halton added this image to a collection of 386 galaxies in his, Atlas of Peculiar Galaxies. His colleagues had finally had enough. They cleared their throats as they explained the observatory owed the scientific community an obligation to not squander the facilities’ resources on claims that have little or no merit.

  The Big Bang universe has always had a significant weight problem. To compensate for the physics, they invented a substance called dark matter. Big Bangers insist 96% of the universe is hidden in a veil of darkness. Dark matter or dark energy can only be perceived by a few elite theoreticians, each of whom’s work depends on the accuracy of redshift. The clergy of academia is as rampant in astronomy as it was in climatology. How does dark matter psychology change your experience? Do you feel more confident being told you only have 4% visibility?

  How much does Big Bang’s feather weigh on your mind as a belief? How small are we in an ever-expanding explosion? How weightless, rudderless and unimportant is a man in a soup that’s 14 billion light-years across and still spilling? Evolution is expensive psychology in a cold vacuum that doesn’t match our observations. So why is it such a large part of our programming?

  Please think of the weight of every feather placed on your mind by our programmers. Do you stand tall under the psychology of Big Bang? Beware the theory that makes you into a kernel of gruel in dark cosmic spittle. You are a living Sequoia of breathing skin with feet. Let the moon see your fingertips reach for splendor. Unlock your psychology from the barrel of monkeys. Place yourself back in the center of a torus. Make this your universe and take its feather as your new psychology. How heavy is your mind now?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Relativity is a Psyop

  THE WHISTLE BLOWS, and your heart starts pounding as you sprint down a dusty line of white chalk in the dirt. You round third base and head into home plate like your bedroom is on fire and you have to save G.I. Joe. There is no catcher or even a baseball – just a summer counselor with a whistle and a stopwatch. The game is drunken baseball, and you’ve won it three days in a row. You rush in like an athlete and place your forehead on the tail of a baseball bat planted on home plate. With your fingers gripped high around the neck you stare down the barrel of pine. Your still world starts a slow spin cycle as your body turns counter-clockwise in a spiral. Everything around you blends in a whirl as you enter general relativity. You are a living gyro as a voice yells out each revolution. One. Two. Three. You are in control. Four. Five. Six. You have acquired some wobble in your orbit. Seven. Eight. Nine. You have a liftoff and cut your main thrusters. Your fingers release the bat as i
t falls back to home plate like a spent rocket booster. Your head is in a free twirl as you straighten your spine and set a vector at first base. Your flight path telemetry reports multiple errors. Your gyroscope is spinning itself sideways against the massive objection of gravity. Your cochlea insists itself as your craft runs straight into the dugout. The counselor laughs, and the game of drunken baseball is retired.

  Relativity says our planet has four North Poles. Relativity insists we are rotating around the sun at ten times the speed of sound while spinning 1,000 miles per hour on our axis. Relativity told us this was all from gravity in a vacuum. But space is not a vacuum; it’s made of aether. Gravity is the 600-year-old mythology of Isaac Newton, and it predated our discovery of electricity. Einstein’s special relativity placed Sir Isaac Newton on a pedestal while dismissing the work of Nikola Tesla. Einstein was a prop, not a scientist. The psyop of Einstein rejected Tesla’s aether by insisting all of the measuring sticks were warped by spacetime. Einstein was dismissing real data from theoretical conjecture. Einstein didn’t even have to prove himself. He called it, “special relativity.”

  “The [Theory of Relativity] wraps all these errors and fallacies and clothes them in magnificent mathematical garb which fascinates, dazzles and makes people blind to the underlying errors. The theory is like a beggar clothed in purple whom ignorant people take for a king. Its exponents are very brilliant men, but they are the metaphysicist rather than the scientist. Not a single one of the relativity propositions has been proved. Today’s scientists have substituted mathematics for experiments, and eventually, build a structure which has no relation to reality.” – Nikola Tesla (NY Times, 7/11/1935)

  Tesla has always been right about the nature of our world. Tesla believed in an electric universe. Relativity gave us black holes. It invented dark matter and dark energy. Planetary spin and even gravity. None of these things have ever been observed directly. The pillars of academia are built on the hunches of monkeys. Einstein wanted to join these notions together in a grand unification. As if clumping them into a pile made each of them more digestible. Einstein’s colleagues rejected his mythos by showing him quantum mechanics. Tesla had already solved the world. Science wanted relativity. No one questions the expert. No one asks if it’s true.

  When you study the photos of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, the debris resembles a firebomb attack with conventional ordnance. We are told they were nuclear attacks despite both of these cities repopulating the following year. Everyone knows the indisputable equation E=MC2. Just as everyone is convinced the Big Bang is undeniable. Science prophets like Stephen Hawking lived to be 76 despite having ALS with an average life expectancy of 2 – 5 years. Would it be the first time a voice was scripted for an agenda? Will it be the last? Psychologically, there is no difference between having a nuclear bomb and holding the illusion of one. The dream of atomic weapons is a kind of fear possession. The very first Daisy attack ad for the 1964 Presidential Campaign Ad was brought to you by the psyop of relativity.

  Consider an Electric Universe. Picture yourself still for a moment. Create the universe in your mind and stomp the brakes. Stop all your rotations and orbits. Bring it all back down slowly. In each deep breath, slow your orbit around the sun. Slow below the sound barrier where you can hear yourself think again. Keep going. Feel yourself spinning down more and more. Find the sensation of still. There is no orbit. There is no rotation. We are perfectly still. Stillness is the silence of motion.

  Truth is a form of meditation. You are home now. All you can honestly know and trust must come through personal experience. The world is riddled with whispering spiders. They cannot lie to you from this new center. Relativity is mental programming. It turns your mind into a gyroscope. In the spin, a mind can't feel the leash. Find rich confidence in the stillness of the universe. There is only one north pole, and we all share it. There is one ground. Take off your shoes and plant your feet deep in the soil. A zillion electrons gush their way up into the circuitry of your skin. Breathe plasma from the center of a single still world. Your home is a flat plane.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  My Body's Trinity

  HE LOOKED LIKE a human Fozzie Bear. I love Fozzie Bear. He displayed an intimate relationship with the Bible. He declared "Shalom," and the glory of Yahweh as his compass at the beginning of every video. I accused him of being a sociopathic vampire. I said he was peddling hope for profit. He explained how he would be willing to explain it all later. But for now, he wanted to focus on the children. He said patience was the highest virtue. I began to shrink in doubt. Kind women were backing him now with encouragement. They were asking me why I was so negative. My cowboy hat cast a tall black shadow across the thread. In moments like these, we either abandon our intuition or hunker down. I hunkered down and made a decision. Adrenaline surged in my fingers as I had my own back. I knew he was lying.

  The truth is dropped, and lies are dangled.

  Confidence comes from the decisions we make with our body, not our brain. The body electric is a three-piece band. Our lungs are its pipes. Our heart is its drum. The mind plays the strings. The body’s rhythm cycles between 1-16 revolutions per second. We long to be in sync with ourselves and each other. Non-sympathetic vibrations can subtly influence our rhythm. We are led by the discomfort and subconsciously change our tune. Like the body, the Earth has these same three rhythms. The Schumann fundamental (7.83Hz) is the rhythm of her breath. The second order is the rhythm of her heart (14.1Hz). The third order is the rhythm of her thought (20.3Hz). Imagine you controlling all three frequencies in your own body: your breath, your heart, and your mind. You could tune your body in sync with Earth’s song. Your mind would pulse the very same frequencies.

  A long time ago someone shoved a stick way up someone’s nose and noticed it made them more stupid. We decided then that all of our thoughts must come from the brain. Later we cut someone's head off and noticed it kept talking so we decided the soul must be in the brain somewhere, too. We are programmed to think like we are heads in jars. But the brain is a router, not a processor. Your memories and urges are stored in your cells and organs. An organ transplant recipient will adopt many characteristics of their donors from cravings for food to adventure. We are endocrine systems long before we are gray computers.

  Man is a trinity of decision. We are the combination of head, heart, and digestion. Sometimes truth is a brussel sprout. My lips always pucker at their presence. But truth rarely tastes like caramel and sugar. And taste is but a single dimension - an instrument of the head. We don’t know the truth until it meets our digestion. How does one feel after candy? How does one feel after vegetables? Nutrition is discerned through the intestines. It takes time. Flavor is immediate. Digestion is a process.

  Of course, our heart is the final critic. He sits at the table for hours and ponders. The anxious chef peeks through the porthole from the kitchen. The chef wants a verdict, but the fickle heart won’t answer. He wants to ponder over his finished plate for a while. He is experiencing the room with the fresh meal in his belly. He is lingering in the afterglow of its side effect over a cigar smoked from a leather sofa. The heart knows a meal only after it is digested.

  I discovered later, my body was right about Fozzie. He has a mob of angry people warning people about him all over the country. He uses religion as a shepherd’s crook. He posts free plane tickets in exchange for a new bride’s obedience. He’s on marriage number six. Sociopaths hijack our empathy because we aren’t taught to engage ourselves at every level. Don’t be afraid to listen. Don’t be afraid to be wrong. Don’t ignore the body. It is your biggest ally.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Credibility of Silence

  THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN telepathy and empathy is nothing. We are hairy sweaty dolphins with kneecaps navigating the world with emotional sonar. Dolphins experience sounds as a mandala. Our face is the sound of our feelings. Nothing lights the brain up more in an MRI than facial recognition. Nothing burns more cal
ories than our thoughts. We are human empathy computers that have been hacked by a lying elite. Psychopaths have disseminated a million floating bottles with false messages. Each washes up on our shore and tear at our heartstrings. We are lost knowing which one to believe. We attack each other on the beach from the smoke of this emotional terrorism. That is until you see the face of Mrs. Kavanaugh. Everybody drops their bottle and sees her face so very clearly. If you want to look at how Congress honors women, watch Ashley Kavanaugh sit helplessly through her husband’s statement.

  There is credibility in silence. Mrs. Kavanaugh has it, and she never held a microphone. You could watch her face with the sound turned off and still hear every word as it was spoken. Dr. Ford was armed with a microphone and a cup of coffee. She was prepared by experts to be both cerebral and collegiate. However, we are empaths, and our words are mostly silly decorations. Dr. Ford felt justified lying about Kavanaugh because Dr. Ford never had justice. She morphed back into a girl asking for help with her microphone. That girl is the real victim. She is a ten-year-old trauma victim still living in an unjust world. She owes no one any special treatment — especially not someone who represents the very thing that failed her. There is no more significant symbol of justice than the Supreme Court. But Dr. Ford does not know justice. She is still frozen in her regression. Her entire history makes her a corrupted witness.