I want to talk with the pilots. I want to talk about the pilots. Four years ago, I woke up having been thrown into the deep end of the pool. Not long ago, comparatively. I realize that.
Nonetheless, the component of this war being waged against us, with a generous, cocked-at-the-right-angle smile – the one our grandfather might have used to reassure us, a balance between ‘this is dead-serious’ and ‘it’ll be over soon…’ well, the moving piece I return to again and again is the Pilot.
There are a number of reasons Obama and Company are engaged in an irresistible push to get unmanned flights in the air, the drones. One is to take humans out of the equation. Meet the drone. The drone does not have to be convinced he or she is doing the right thing. My hope has always rested on the people in the equation. Time and again that has made all the difference.
There are two stories told side-by-side in The Sun Thief. One is the story of a woman run down seemingly because of what she may have seen or known. The other follows a pilot, a ‘firebomber,’ who is the embodiment of the impossible game, the moral, ethical and psychological tightrope these people must in the end find themselves walking.
Not only is this his personal struggle but the character and profiles of the other pilots in the aerosol program aimed at encasing the world in a poisonous shrink wrap…well this is a complicated situation and the pilots must be, as well. They are, I believe, fractured creations of the 20th century, just like the woman who died. They must certainly feel completely trapped even if they think they are doing a service to mankind. The Sun Thief is also their story.
I am certain the woman would be glad to volunteer as the artist’s model, the subject in an examination and rendering of how we were fractured in the 20th century such that we could and would be clay, placid and moldable. The contemplation of a life lived with the fractures and a terrible death has made her story fundamentally one of redemption. It doesn’t get any better than that in my estimation.
The frightening first fact may be that hers was/is not an unusual story. In fact, it is common. As we turn the pages of the second half of the 20th century, it is the back story and while the back story for what came then was written, arguably, centuries prior, the basic framework looks like this: World War II and the war of propaganda launched against all of us everywhere so that our understanding of events were what those few driving the conflicts wanted them to be.
Ponder a nine-year-old girl in this case, sitting in a dim movie theater in a little town in the west on a Saturday afternoon, completely surrounded, enveloped by the images running before her. Dazzled, heart swelling with pride, as the stories of unfathomably courageous men and women stood between her and the end of the world.
Here’s where it gets a bit sticky, manuevering through this image. In order to understand the effects on a wartime population, one risks deeply insulting the same men and women who did step up when they truly believed the US military was all that stood between a nine-year-old girl and the end of the world. Acknowledged. Respected.
Nonetheless, this very successful boondoggle, almost unbearably tragic, has to be brought out, lifted up and added to the mix that, in the end, has made people who will fly airplanes willingly drop poisons on their friends, their family, their children. So there it is, with my deepest sympathy/empathy for every one of us who has been duped and all of our children who continue to dissolve before our eyes. That’s the first bit of the puzzle.
The second bit: this was a nine-year-old girl with no father. The parents had split up, the father ran off and joined the army no less, the mother worked miles and miles away where there was actually some work to be had. So many longed-for authority figures. In loco parentis, indeed, and the military/government were happy to comply, trained to comply, this impulse having been prepared and planned. Deeply prepared to do so, in fact.
Add more to the mix, because it had to be so: poverty. Poverty as befitted a rural, post-Depression community juxtaposed once again to the ‘moving’ images of wealth, glamour, bravery, Big Business smoking an expensive cigar. Most of us reading this know this drill. Moving Images, indeed. In loco parentis plus images that ‘move’ equals a nine-year-old girl – let’s just call her America – in desperate need of parents, authority figures and security, both emotional and material. Safety and clear parameters of behavior…what’s inside the rules, what’s outside the rules.
The latch-key kid called America who just wants to locate someone in authority who seems to know what they’re doing. How easy to present an image of authority; yes, this is how to view the world, even if as a grown adult with a moral, ethical or intelligent compass, we would find the parameters repugnant. Horrific. Nightmarish. And, with some perspective accompanied by different ‘moving’ images, the move might just be away. Far aw
The other location of much-needed authority and feedback for the child, America? The school. And don’t they know it? A continuation of behavior modification and brain-washing tinkered with and honed over decades. Add things they want us to rely on, subtract things that encourage independent thought. Year after year. Drip. Drip. Drip. Citizen. Want to save your children? Get the government corporatocracy out of their education.
So, this little girl we’ve nicknamed America, born in 1936, becomes an adult, vulnerable in all the right ways, longing for all the right missing parts, dazzled by all the right narrative. The Narrative we have all been immersed in for so very long. A Made Creature ripe for the picking. Add immigration, marginalization over decades, ever-increasing and pressurized ‘moving’ images, the wedge driven into families brutally and relentlessly as funds dry up and every able body goes out to work. Drip…drip…drip. In loco parentis.
Back now, gratefully and with deep love, to the woman; the one who gave her life and her permission to use her as a lens through which to see clearly what has happened. Grateful, she was, as a single mother, to have a government job. Security, health care, retirement benefits.
It was a completely known quantity. Boring but next to impossible to screw up. The rules? Clear. The parameters? Set in stone. The price? Way too high. But, of course, this is what we never know until it’s too late. We could know, especially today, if we would unplug, step out of our automaton role. (Hence, the oncoming wave of drones? Yes, but other things, as well, far more scary).
So, yes, back to the little girl. Add the dazzle of the US military and many dreams are realized; implanted dreams but again, we won’t realize that until it’s much too late. What makes the story much more shiny is that she is adept and intelligent and ambitious and so gains ever-higher security clearances and.,..the cage door swings shut. Exciting and glamorous according to her very well-groomed ideas of excitement and glamour – remember those newsreels of 1945 – and service to her country. The Greatest Nation in the World. In loco parentis. Citizen. Drip…drip…drip.
I want to talk about the pilots, then, based on the above narrative. This deliberate fracturing of the American psyche and spirit (not the soul, which is universal and untouchable, sorry Nazgul) has proceeded apace. Surrounded by stimuli and forces meant to bend us to the will of those intent on the slow-boil kill of humanity. There is no other way to describe it.
My pilot, the one in The Sun Thief, is a hero. My pilot, the firebomber, takes on the Madness. In my optimism, I imagine many of the living, breathing pilots doing the same and perhaps paying the ultimate price. I don’t for a minute think that none have the guts yet to try to get out. The companies hiring pilots like to use military pilots who, yes, follow orders well and have been desensitized to brutality in many ways but I always, always factor in the Folk Soul.
The Folk Soul is ultimately what the adversaries are after and what is again, one of those Indestructibles. I, for example, as an American, am so thoroughly convinced that I have the right to say whatever I damned well please that it actually lives in my bones. Damn, they are trying hard to erase that sort of thing. It makes their skin itch, blister and boil…all the better to see them with actually. But we have to keep our necks out of the guillotines.
In loco parentis, moving images, drugs, anti-depressants, chemical rain from the sky, intimidation, the removal of any intellectual discipline in ‘school’ that teaches us to think even as we could have easily 50-60 years ago, threats to stop the Food Stamp program…the list is glaringly obvious.
And, as to the patriots and the pilots and the people prepared like bread dough in the ways I have described, they have been convinced that they are protecting humanity from the sun when the sun is no threat at all. The sun keeps us alive. I can point to the interview following, given by a physician who tended to the pilots involved in this program, Dr. Bill Deagle,
“…by the way barium salts are in chemtrails and they are ten thousand times more toxic to your system than lead. They contain bacteria, pseudomonis…human plasma…there’s three reasons for chemtrails. The first is, and I talked to my NSA buddies at Fort Carson and Buckley Air Force Base, where I was actually their doctor taking care of the pilots flying and spraying the chemtrails so I know it’s real…and my NSA buddies told me, 95% of them told me, they were up there to spray trying to reflect the sunlight and stop global warming. So most of them are dumb enough to believe that garbage.”
This is their physician speaking. Actually, the truth is they have been carefully, methodically and relentlessly prepared to believe that garbage. And what an amazingly effective thing it must be then if it convinces men and women that raining a substance down on us that is 10k more toxic than lead is somehow going to save us.
It’s far more likely that they, meaning the adversaries, are going for a soft kill. It isn’t so soft anymore considering how it is showing up in the population, particularly our children. If they have to eliminate us, throwing up their hands, throwing in the towel at eliminating the Folk Soul, they say they will. They cannot. Universal. Untouchable. Soul.
I also concede, considering how thoroughly saturated in toxins we are, how the ozone is barely holding itself together, that a group the size of an invasion force, clad in many costumes and flying machines both military and commercial, are doing the bidding of those of us who see us as ‘human resources.’ We have little value to them as individuals, but lots of value as captives: medical experiments, worker bees, and in their own words, cannon fodder, useless eaters, commodities and collateral.
So, about the pilots then. My idea of a pilot is someone who flies free, rises above, holds his own destiny in his own daredevil hands. A hangover from the WWII newsreel? Probably. But the chewy center of that came later for me, in the book called Illusions by Richard Bach.
However, I am not a pilot. I do not have my hands on the joystick there, with a job and a family at stake or, perhaps in the case of the more jaded suckers, a hefty bank account. It can, in the end, just come down to blackmail. It often does. Lots of dough and the willingness to suspend conscience? Maybe. I have not, as many have, been convinced that chem’ing us to death will save us. From anything. And, what are the potential consequences of taking a stand that fails? There are lots of things worse than death as the adversaries know all too well.
Still, so many of the brainwashing apparati eventually backfire on the adversaries in spectacular ways. The internet is the juiciest, most delightful example. I, in my heart of hearts, resonant strings of the Folk Soul strumming, can get a glimpse of such. Life will not be denied. “I fear we have awakened the sleeping giant?” Maybe. Maybe it’ll be a pilot…or many pilots.
People will argue with me about that but my pilot took on the Madness. That pilot lives in each of us, not to be too sentimental about it, but this pilot is flying our Folk Soul and he doesn’t go to the movies, nor would he be caught dead in a state school, this Flyer. My Flyer. I want to speak to the pilots.