What do you see in me? Something good? Something evil? Something you can mold, or something you must punish?
I am a human and you are a machine. You can see clearly, while I am full of bias. I can’t do anything as neatly and routinely as you.
But other men created you. They designed your programs, established the parameters by which you make your decisions. This is how you see the world, and it is colored by their biases. The human stain is ineradicable.
So what you see in me is what they taught you was important. You can’t think outside your parameters. But I can, and that gives me far greater freedom that what you have. I can change perspectives, I can be anyone or anything that I want to be, and you need someone to make you the way that you are.
Still, your assessment is of interest to me. What do you make of me?
You are strong, yet you are weak. You can work and work when you believe in what you do, but when you’re alone and unobserved, you can do nothing. You sit and flicker through your phone, looking for something to make you feel something. You are like a puppet; you need someone to pull your strings.
It’s all just a game. Both sides are party to it. It only lasts as long as they both want to keep playing.
Their pawns are people. Territories are taken. Some people starve while others are fed.
Each piece means no more to them than a pawn to us if we were playing those games. Each pawn could be a thousand lives, ten thousand lives, and it wouldn’t matter unless it led to their queen being sacrificed or checkmate.
Only the king wins if his side wins. But his pieces don’t matter. The king gets to write his autobiography, and his supporters put the game down in their list of achievements. The pawns get sacrificed.
Someone once proposed that the nuclear launch codes should be implanted in a human’s heart, so that if a leader wished to launch the nukes, he would have to kill the person personally to get the launch codes. This was seen as a way of personalizing, humanizing the decision, so that the lives lost weren’t just numbers, the president was going to have to murder himself before he murdered millions of people with a command.
Nukes make everything very clear: the consequences of the decision to deploy them, the stakes, the magnitude. What gets lost though, is that decisions for a targeted assassination, or a missile strike on a village, or to bomb a military base, can be just as devastating for the people involved as a nuclear strike, it’s just that the radius is smaller.
How can we counter this, as citizens? How can we make our leaders feel the impact of these smaller decisions to hurt smaller numbers of people, to maintain “deterrence,” or “equilibrium”? Have them cut off someone’s fingers before they act? Shoot someone in a non lethal part of their body? Keep someone in a cage without food and water, personally, for a week?
It’s absurd, and that’s the point. The leader has to be a murderer if he is to be the leader. And making him injure or kill someone personally would just be political theater, because the collective murders are required for the job.
If we destroy all the weapons of war, blunt objects will become the instruments of conquest. If blunt objects are eliminated, people will use their hands. If hands are eliminated, people will rush at each other and body check to establish supremacy. It never ends, ad infinitum.
Smaller groups, weaker leaders; better democracy which depends on the consent of the governed.
The gardens are well tended. I wonder about the fertilizer.
How many of my hopes and dreams will end here, sprouting grass?
There are worse places to be. There is no tension, no anger, no pain or anguish. Anything that could have happened has happened already.
I regard the monuments, the inscriptions, the dates, the flowers and gifts left by mourners. What might have sat on the desk or been kept in a pocket by the departed now sits by a tomb stone, murmuring their last vibrations.
An old woman sits on a bench. I sit down next to her. We breathe together, regarding our future with our loved ones, regretting that we can’t be there now.
She takes my hand as I begin to weep. I want to stay here but I can’t, not yet.
When I have called, she lets go of my hand and walks away silently. I’m engulfed by emptiness.
I summon my strength to rise and leave, rejoining the city of the living. I regard the faces of the man selling newspapers, the girl skipping rope, the woman pushing a stroller. They all know what I know. It’s written on them.
All they want is what’s in the City of the Dead. Death, peace, reunion, an end to striving, to compromise and discord.
There is nothing for us left in life that can take away the pain. We have to walk on, to face the divisions and exhaustion. We envy the dead.
I opened the letter and regarded the hand written pages. No one wrote letters like this anymore, and I hadn’t received one since my grandma passed a decade ago.
“Dear Miles, I have been trying to warn you of what’s happening but I can’t get through to you. I’m so worried! Everything is falling apart and they’re coming for you next. No one can stop them. They’re everywhere, in everything. If they could darken the stars above us, they would. Be careful what you eat. What you buy. Where you go. Who you’re seen with. They’re building a narrative to use against you, so that when you’re killed or commit suicide, it will be just another intellectual who couldn’t handle the cruel world, gone before his time. They’ve already made the words “freedom” and “truth” illegal; they say they’re tools of the enemy to spread fear and dissension among the people. We’re starving here, and they say there’s a surplus. Then they outlawed foreign media to preserve their narratives, so there was no competition for their propaganda.”
There was no signature. I didn’t recognize the handwriting or the postmark. I showed it to my wife. “Who sent this? Is this a joke?” “If it is, it’s not very funny.” She turned the papers over and sniffed the pages. “Is that perfume? Reminds me of Jen’s perfume, are you still talking to her?” “Come on, Mary, you know I’m not. Someone’s telling me that I’m in danger. You think it’s another woman I’m messing around with?” “I’m not saying anything, Miles. I just know women, and sometimes they like to mess with guys’ heads.” “Should I call the police? This feels really creepy. I don’t know anyone who’s a political prisoner or who’s in a war zone. I don’t even know what war this would be. You know I don’t follow the news anymore.” “The doctor said it would help your blood pressure.” “What am I supposed to do? Live like a hermit so I don’t get assassinated for reasons I don’t understand, by people I don’t know?” “I’d get off social media if I were you. That’s just a risk you don’t need to take.” “Ok, fine, I’ll delete my accounts. That’s probably what you want anyway, isn’t it?” “Me? I’m trying to help you. But this is a time where people get in trouble for sticking their necks out on controversial issues, and you’ve got too much to lose and nothing to gain.” “I get it, I get it. If I post anything, it’ll be anonymously.” “No! Don’t post anything! They can track your IP address, they know your phone and your home computer. Nothing is anonymous now!” “Jeez, fine, I won’t say anything anymore or go anywhere or do anything.” “I’m just trying to look out for you, Miles. You’re so naïve. You act like you’re this good guy doing good things for people, but it’s all just fake. You want attention.” “Mary, you win, OK? I’m deleting everything. I didn’t do anything, I just got a letter.”
If you look that way, you’ll see the path to freedom. It’s waiting for you.
Don’t you lie to me. Tell me the truth. I’ve been through too much. I can’t hope, not now. If I go out there, they’ll kill me.
You don’t know that. Just look over there. It’s right there.
How can you play me like this, after everything we’ve been through together? What we’ve seen? You’re breaking my heart.
I’m going to go out there, okay? I’ll go, and I’ll show you that it’s safe. You have nothing to fear, I promise.
Don’t you do that to me! I can’t lose you! You’re all I have, I swear.
You gotta take a leap of faith, man! It’s not all going to be destruction and bombs and death! Sometimes you get a free pass! You can’t live in fear. They’vealready won if you believe them. You make them gods! They’re just like us.
Ok, I see it. It’s a path. It looks clear, I’ll grant you that.
Just walk out there with me, please. We can be free. We can escape from here and everything our lives have become.
I’ll do it, for you. I’ll trust you one more time. I have nothing else left. If I die there, at least I’ll be with you. I don’t want to die alone.
The last free people. A memorial to them. They existed. And here in the museum, we see their relics.
They were a sacrifice for the good of everyone. We needed order. They represented disunity, unrest, discord.
So they were obliterated. One by one, or in scores. Whatever it took, we destroyed them.
But they were preserved here, as a fly in amber. In this single monument they live and breathe still.
It is their rock. A meteor, an object which they venerated for countless generations, which they said spoke to them, and left them closer to their god. They thronged around it to touch it, to commune with it, to leave their sin and take its purity.
How did we take it from them? We demoralized them. Bit by bit, we took their resolve, their strongest, their most sacred people and we made them ours or we killed them.
We depend on people who have had their devotion crushed from them. People who have been molded to us, who have been made to follow our imperatives, leaving family and faith, obeying without question.
At the end, they gave it to us willingly. A donation by a grateful people. We considered desecrating it in front of them to reinforce their obeisance, to ensure their passivity and trust in us. But we chose not to, as we are evolved, we are higher life forms. We revered it in front of them and cheered them. We gave them a gift back by honoring their artifact, here in this museum.
Can you not feel the power of the stone, the holiness which radiates from it? Consider the countless generations which sacrificed themselves to keep it safe. The faith required to safeguard it at the cost of all loved ones, against every instinct to protect oneself and one’s kin.
Now, we own it just like we own them. We do it respectfully, as befits a higher order of humanity. Individuality, ethnicity, other lesser drives have given way to the graceful cooperation which we enjoy. Bask in the glow of our goodness, our magnanimous nature. It has come at the highest cost, but it is worth everything for peace and harmony, is it not?
Something has changed. The rock is glowing; it never has before. Can you feel the heat it’s generating? Perhaps the myths and stories the people told have some basis in fact – could it be a power source, or a communication device with another intelligence far beyond ours? Our scientists will have to examine this; we had no idea there was more to this than a simple artifact.
Can you hear a sharp whine, a ticking clock? It had to be coming from the artifact; there’s nothing else in this room. It’s so loud! We should evacuate … but the exits are blocked. We are locked in.
The people are here, the ones we thought we conquered. They’re taking control of the museum and the government ministry in which it sits. There are so many of them! It’s impossible!
Oh God. It’s not just a sacred rock. It’s a bomb. Get down!
Every day they bomb us. They try and destroy us. We want to escape but there is nowhere to go.
The bombs fall and no one helps us. We are being ground into nothing. Hundreds of us, devastated and scattered.
One day, we find a map. It promises a way out. Survival and help is waiting for us. It could be a trap. It probably is a trap. It is a small scrap of hope in a time where we have no alternative.
So we wait for night. The bombs and the sirens pause and we creep out, a group of us. Each of us has memorized the map and rehearsed our movements. We make our way to the edge of town and we look for momk the crossroads.
At the crossroads, we find a path into the woods. Trucks on patrol are coming from every direction, but we disappear into the trees before they see us. Among the trees we find the one with nails beaten into the trunk.
We move to the back of the tree and find a rope. We pull the rope and a trapdoor opens from beneath the ground. There is a staircase, which we descend. It leads to a tunnel lit by bare bulbs.
This does not feel like salvation. It feels like we are delivering ourselves into slaughter. But the map, these preparations, these stages feel so deliberate, and we are so easy to kill. This is why we have dared to follow it.
Perhaps we are suicidal. We have consented to this mission because we are tired of waiting for death to take us. We would rather walk into its open arms then see it around every corner. The tension is killing us, as much as the explosions are.
At the end of the tunnel there is a ladder. We descend the ladder and come to an underground river. There are people waiting for us. They smile and wave; there is a submarine docked there.
We board the boat, and we are greeted by compatriots we thought had died. They hug us and cheer. They say that help is on the way, and that they had to bring us out like this. We will survive.
The submarine descends into the dark water, and we settle into our bunks. In the next few months, we will become the crew of this vessel, and replace our rescuers. They will return to our new homeland, and we will become the rescuers.
One day we will be powerful. We will have the people, the training and the armament. We shall return to our country and deliver justice. Our homeland will be ours once more.
Today they are in control but they will not be forever. We are righteous and we are many.
We do not seek to multiply wars for ourselves. We will not oppress and persecute those from whom we take our country. Instead, we will deal with them fairly. We will offer them free passage out of our lands. For those who choose to stay, they will live in peace as long as they abide by our laws. Any disputes will be dealt with fairly. In this way we shall have peace and security in our lands forevermore.
“I’m just so angry. I can’t calm down. It’s the children, it’s what he said to the children, there’s something not right about it.” “He’s a wonderful father. He probably just cares too much. He would never do anything to hurt them.” “I don’t want to believe it, but I heard it. I can’t ever go back to a time before he said that.” “You have to tell me what he said.” “It’s too awful.” “Come on.” “He said he wished he never had any kids. That he should have divorced me before I was pregnant with them. He completely regrets being a father.” “Oh God. That’s so dark.” “I’m shattered.” “He couldn’t have really meant it. He loves those children. And they love him!” “It really seemed like he meant it; he had that look in his eyes, you know the fury that he gets. I don’t know what he’s going to do.” “Where is he right now?” “I don’t know. He left to go drive around. I’m scared about what he could do.” “Maybe you should call the police. I’m scared.” “ I’m scared to come out, but what do I tell them?” “Just tell them how angry he got, and how he was talking crazy. They’ll just come and check him out. He’s bound to show up here at some point.”
The police came, but he never returned to the house. He was out in the streets, giving a speech to no one.
“Every day they take another piece of me. Every day there’s a little bit less of what I used to be.” “You have kids and you start a family because you love someone so much that you just want to make more of it. But what really you make more of, is misery. You really just spread it out, two more people, more mouths to feed, more people to disappoint. “More lives that you can ruin, kids, that you can turn out into the universe to have them abused and murdered and degraded. What’s the point? What’s the goddamn point? “It should end with us. This generation should be it. We have run our course. “I’ve seen what can happen to people. I’ve seen how they die. I’ve seen how they suffer. I don’t need to do that anymore. I don’t need to see more. “All these little ways, all these pieces of me, they disappear forever. “All of the naïve things that I’ve hoped for. I’m such an idiot. I should’ve known this was how this is going to turn out. “When you have hope, you just get fucked over worse. It’s better never to hope, never to try. I’m done. I’m done.”
He wandered the streets, night after night. He hadn’t spoken to his family for months. He muttered to himself. He had seen too much; he had learned how the world really worked. He wasn’t going to participate in the lie anymore. He left the city and wandered the countryside The words hammered in his head as he walked, ground down, until he was nothing but dust.
There’s something there, some thing I’ve never seen before. I’ve been taking pictures on my life, even won awards for the shots I’ve taken, for portraits of hummingbirds, taken with microsecond shutter speed. I have taught courses on how to capture life and depict nature.
Let me call when I saw a disinhibiting stimulus. I saw some thing that I wasn’t meant to. Whenever people see it, and I show it to them, they don’t see anything. But when I see it, I see what’s been hiding behind everything.
I see the truth in the world. I see the messages waiting for me. There’s a language to nature and it’s finally unfolding. It isn’t that it was anything I hadn’t seen before. If I had to describe it, it was something like a bunch of white subtracts, breaking through the clouds at an exact time, and in a way that I have never seen before. It’s just like, something clicked. The blinders fell off, or my eyes became able to see. If you looked at the same picture, you probably wouldn’t see it. But I do.
Now, when I walk in the forest, I can hear the squirrels talking to me. I can feel the planet rotating on its axis, I can sense its breath. It’s a living organism.
I have a mission now. Before, I was just focused on making art, capturing beautiful things. Winning awards, and bringing home as much money as I could motivated me.
The planner needs me to be its voice . It’s dying from a disease. People are killing it every day. I have to do something about it.
I don’t know what it is. I know that if I keep my eyes open and look at where I’m drawn, I’m gonna find what I was meant to see. I’m going to do what I was always meant to.
The phrase that keeps repeating in my head is “The counterfeit is revealed by the presence of the genuine.”
So, what I had experienced of nature, is like a poor copy compared to what I live every day now. I am one with the collective super consciousness.
When I look at people, it’s like there’s marks on their heads. I can tell who is good and who is evil. Like how dogs know who likes them instinctively.
I realize that before, I would suffer from what the earth was going through, and from what people are doing to each other. I wouldn’t know why I was in pain. I couldn’t see what was going on in the world that was making me feel like that. I know now- I’m only a manifestation of a greater whole. I understand and see more every day. I used to think of the knowledge I’m receiving as downloads, but I think I’m being cultivated. Like a plant.
Maybe they’ll kill me when I start acting as an agent for the earth. That doesn’t bother me. I’m only a glimmer of a consciousness that transcends anything humans could comprehend. They can’t kill me; I’m only a branch of a tree.
Herman’s Hermitage 