ENW-Wanderer King: DeadMansLandWalking

{BlackPipeMtnDovePk-KingsCasperCheFt}

{Sun Slamdunk Tzu}

~ Demockery ~
A slick form of oligarchy government by a small group or class

Excuse Me, Mr. President: The Message of the Broken Eagle
by Rick Paul Springer

Chapter 3: The Hundredth Monkey

The Movement… A Joke from Childhood?
The honky guvmint official showed up on the res, claiming that the tribe had to move again. Coal or oil or uranium had been discovered and the Big Father in Washington needed it.
The chief of the tribe, Chief Bowels, listened to the official but was not impressed. Unfortunately the official got confused when Chief Bowels answered simply, “Bowels No Move.”
Uncle Sam’s man ran off to get a doctor thinking he had to solve the Chief’s problem, constipation, before he could convince him to move. The doctor gave him his standard laxative but three days later the Chief still insisted, “Bowels No Move.”
The doctor got more serious and moved from Ex-lax to the industrial strength Milk of Magnesia. The official got worried when that didn’t work and Bowels still wouldn’t move. Finally they administered the hospital brand. The following day they arrived to check on the Chief and asked again. “Well, Chief, will bowels move now.”
The Chief responded, “Bowels gotta move: tipi full of shit.”
~!~ **#** ~!~
I was hitchhiking down the highway back in ’69, the year I graduated high school. I was up in South Dakota, east of those big carved rocks of white men, those famous presidents. They struck me as a bold and cruel statement. Conquer a people, take their land and then carve faces of your own people in their sacred mountains.
Still the native people weren’t destroyed. It’s the home of the Lakota. Several of the states up there, as across the United States, are named after the native people, Minnesota, the Dakota’s, Nebraska. It’s really the Paha Sapa, the Black Hills… Sacred Lands. Some may argue it’s just a name but it’s the difference between calling a place a church or a dump, a lady or a slut, a place you respect or something to rape. Miners rushed Rushmore for more gold but later they came back for the uranium, the yellow cake, not as shiny as gold but in our twisted system of power and capital, worth even more.
My thumb never failed. After a man picked me up in his beat-up Chevy van, he looked over at me and asked what I thought of Nixon and the whole Watergate thing.
I scrunched my nose as if I was about to check my shoes to see what I had stepped in, when I told him. “Man, I’m not really into politics.”
He took his eyes off the road, looking at me with the eyes of age. His words sunk in like water splashed on a sponge. “Really? Well, politics is into you.”
It took a dozen years for those words to ferment. They mixed with the sun of the Mohave, the salt water of Alaska’s bays, the forests of Humboldt, the rocks of Mount Index, seasons of wandering in the desert, mountains and seashores of a continent. They made a bitter wine of that truth… politics is into you! There was no use denying it. I could love the earth all I wanted to, but everywhere, the pock marks and cesspools of industry and capitalism were… how you say… ‘in yo face’.. A cancer cluster here, cyanide in your water there, cesium, strontium, radionuclides in your bones, yet bombers screaming through your Idaho wilderness.
I had seen too much of Earth’s beauty, God in person, face to face, to ignore the demise any longer. I had no choice but to respond. The question was ‘where?’. Where was the kingpin issue that would unlock the human mind, releasing us from that market morality of judging ourselves by our material possessions or bank accounts?
~!~
When I asked in prayer, “Just what do you want from me.” I hadn’t considered the possibility that the answer would be, “Your life.” I know now, there is no other answer.
I knew instinctively it would be a period of great spiritual growth because I felt there was no way it could happen otherwise. I was not enlightened, not a guru. I wallowed in power struggles in my relationships… But my love for this earth was genuine and as strong an emotion as any I hold. It’s the love of a parent for a child, the love of a child for it’s parent, the love of mates, of beauty and song and more, and all these loves wrapped into the autumn leaves that carpet and nourish that circle of life.
I put this vision out there to the Western Shoshone National Council, to American Peace Test, to Nevada Desert Experience. My thought was to create a franchise event that every group would take as their own. I called it the Hundredth Monkey Project after the book. The book promoted a concept of critical mass whereby each person was important and may be that hundredth monkey of consciousness that gives us the understanding to live in harmony.
At the initial Hundredth Monkey proposal to the Shoshone council in Alamo, Nevada one of the council members told me, ‘Well, you kinda look like Jesus.” I began to feel that humanity was duped into believing that nothing great can happen until Jesus returns. Any who make suggestions a Jesus might make are suspect. After all, Jesus was crucified as an imposter himself… The son of God, hah!
~!~
Helen Caldicott, the Australian physician and author known as the Mother of the Nuclear Movement, committed to speak. John Robbins, the heir to the Baskin-Robbins ice cream fortune and founder of Earth Save, also committed. Casey Kasem, top forty DJ and activist in his own right, joined our effort, recording a Western Union Hotline message for us as well as being an MC for our event.
.!.
“Hi, this is Casey Kasem. Thanks for calling our 1-800-CEACE-92 hotline and sending your message to George Bush requesting the end of nuclear weapons testing.”

The Broken Eagle Incident
Mr. Fritz shook Mr. Raegan’s hand, while the camera panned to a crystal eagle sitting on a Formica pedestal about fifteen feet from the podium. My own eyes panned from the crystal on the stage to the tele-screen where it was bigger than life, all sixteen times, up and down the hall. It appeared on tele-screen after tele-screen, as in a house of mirrors, a gorgeous, crystal eagle with wings spread in flight, probably the most familiar and bastardized symbol of freedom in America. And tomorrow the DOE was gonna shoot down the real eagle with a nuclear bomb test named HUNTER’S TROPHY.
I felt as though I was in a Fellini film, not fully able to grasp the meaning of details, the story somehow distorted, demented. Just what was the message? My own mind’s eye became a camera and ran another movie, meshed and interwoven with the dream before me. I was back in the desert, across from the test site, and there was Corbin Harney, the spiritual leader of the Western Shoshone, singing and praying. I smelled the burning sage in my nostrils. Corbin’s song was real in my ears. “Eh Na na na na nay, Eh na na na nay, eh na na na nay.”

He raised two whole eagle wings over his head as the song came, mournful, yet hopeful, from his barely moving lips. His native tongue made ancient sounds in the here and now. Corbin famed the wisps of rising sage smoke from the abalone shell, using the eagle wings, the sacred symbol. Now a bird on our endangered species list, like the symbol of the buffalo, it’s a commodity sold to us in every months issue of Parade magazine as a collector’s edition china plate or mantelpiece nick-nack. Rachel Carson’s “Silent Spring” was too close to silence for me.
In my mind the nuclear test site sat stubbornly across the valley as an eagle flew overhead and screeched. It was so real, it almost terrified me. I felt my soul splitting and being torn into two fragments, two places at the same time. Was Corbin somewhere praying for me now, talking to me? I felt I had just been purified for the Sundance, while at the same time I might fail.
I saw the dead, emaciated, fly-covered body of a child pass before my eyes, one of the 13 million destined to starve to death this year, fifteen hundred per hour, 25 per minute, somewhere on earth… right now! Her mother absently passed her bony hand back and forth, vacantly staring into the needless space of hell. Why did I torment myself so, sleeping like an exhausted babe in the night and having my dreams and nightmares in the day?
~!~
“Broadcasting has transformed our universe. Radio and television waves are a sixth human sense – the extra dimension of the twentieth century. This invisible energy inspires humans to be human – to learn, to laugh, love, hate, go to war, or join together in peace. Instantly.
“Radio and television waves are the Paul Reveres of the universe. They are liberators undeterred by the icy tundra or trackless desert. You tear down Berlin Walls, uproot bamboo curtains and destroy dictators.”
Some of that was true. Radio and television, combined with print media have transformed the world. Brainwashing works! The White House put out 15 to 20 press releases a day, while Bill Moyers, who worked the White House as a news correspondent, emphasized,

“Most of the news on television is, unfortunately, whatever the government says is news.”
Austrian Scholar Karl Kraus summed it up, “How is the world ruled and led to war? Diplomats lie to the journalists and then believe those lies when they see them in print.”
“Reporters are puppets,” said Lyndon Johnson. “They simply respond to the pull of the most powerful strings.”
Rather than Paul Reveres announcing, “the redcoats are coming,” the media are the redcoats discrediting the modern Reveres as a boy crying wolf.
~!~
“Well, you certainly are an unusual activist,” he told me as he re-entered the room, with a hint of respect in his tone.
“I’m afraid that’s what it takes to get the message out there,” I informed him.
.!.
~ We love to romanticise that which we’ve damn near destroyed. ~
~!~
“They sell us our presidents the same way,
they sell us our clothes and our cars,
They sell us everything from youth to religion,
At the same time they sell us our wars.
I want to know who the men in the shadows are,
I want to hear somebody asking them why?
They can be counted on to tell us who our enemies are
But they’re never the ones to fight or to die.”
~~ Jackson Browne – Lives in the Balance ~~
~!~ ~!~ ~!~ ~!~

{Man-0-War}

1984
by George Orwell

pseudonym for Eric Blair, born in Bengal and educated at Eton; after service with the Indian Imperial Police in Burma, he returned to Europe to earn his living penning novels and essays.
BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU, the caption said, while the dark eyes looked deep into Winston’s own. Down at street level another poster, torn at one corner, flapped fitfully in the wind, alternately covering and uncovering the single word INGSOC. In the far distance a helicopter skimmed down between the roofs, hovered for an instant like a bluebottle, and darted away again with a curving flight. It was the Police Patrol, snooping into people’s windows. The patrols did not matter, however. Only the Thought Police mattered.
Behind Winston’s back the voice from the telescreen was still babbling away about pig iron and the overfulfillment of the Ninth Three-Year-Plan. The TELESCREEN RECEIVED AND TRANSMITTED SIMULTANEOUSLY. ANY SOUND WINSTON MADE, ABOVE THE LEVEL OF A VERY LOW WHISPER, WOULD BE PICKED UP BY IT; MOREOVER, SO LONG AS HE REMAINED IN THE FIELD OF VISION WHICH THE METAL PLAQUE COMMANDED, HE COULD BE SEEN AS WELL AS HEARD. There was of course no way of knowing whether you were being watched at any given moment. How often, or on what system the THOUGHT POLICE plugged in on any individual wire was GUESSWORK. It was even conceivable that they watched everybody all the time. But at any rate they could plug in your wire whenever they wanted to. You had to live – did live, from habit that became instinct – in the assumption that every sound you made was overheard, and, even in darkness, every movement scrutinized. Winston kept his back turned to the telescreen. It was safer; though, as he well knew, even a back can be revealing. A kilometre away the Ministry of Truth, his place of work, towered vast and white above the grimy landscape. This, he thought with a sort of vague distaste – this was London, chief city of Airstrip One, itself the third most populous of the provinces of Oceania.
The Ministry of Truth – Minitrue, in Newspeak* -- was startlingly different from any other object in sight. It was an enormous pyramidal structure of glittering white concrete, soaring up, terrace after terrace, three hundred metres into the air. From where Winston stood it was just possible to read, picked out on its white face in elegant lettering, the three slogans of the Party:

WAR IS PEACE
FREEDOM IS SLAVERY
IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH

The Ministry of Truth contained, it was said three thousand rooms above ground level and corresponding ramifications below. Scattered about London there were just three other buildings of similar appearance and size. So completely did they dwarf the surrounding architecture that from the roof of Victory Mansions you could see all four of them simultaneously. They were the homes of the four Ministries between which the entire apparatus of government was divided: the Ministry of Truth, which concerned itself with news, entertainment, education, and the fine arts; the Ministry of Peace, which concerned itself with war, the Ministry of Love, which maintained law and order; and the Ministry of Plenty, which was responsible for economic affairs. Their names, in Newspeak: Minitrue, Minipax, Miniluv, and Miniplenty.
The Ministry of Love was the really frightening one. There were no windows in it at all. Winston had never been inside the Ministry of Love, nor within half a kilometre of it. It was a place impossible to enter except on official business, and then only by penetrating through a maze of barbed-wire entanglements, steel doors, and hidden machine-gun nests. Even the streets leading up to its outer barriers were roamed by gorilla-faced guards in black uniforms, armed with jointed truncheons.
April 4, 1984
He sat back. A sense of complete helplessness had descended upon him. To begin with, he did not know with any certainty that this was 1984. It must be around that date, since he was fairly sure that his age was thirty-nine, and he believed that he had been born in 1944 or 1945; but it was never possible nowadays to pin down any date within a year or two.
For whom, it suddenly occurred to him to wonder, was he writing this diary? For the future, for the unborn. His mind hovered for a moment round the doubtful date on the page, and then fetched up with a bump against the Newspeak word doublethink. For the first time the magnitude of what he had undertaken came home to him. How could you communicate with the future? It was of its nature impossible. Either the future would resemble the present in which case it would not listen to him, or it would be different from it, and his predicament would be meaningless.
It was nearly eleven hundred, and in the Records Department, where Winston worked, they were dragging the chairs out of the cubicles and grouping them in the center of the hall, opposite the big telescreen, in preparation for the Two Minutes Hate. Winston was just taking his place in one of the middle rows when two people whom he knew by sight, but had never spoken to, came unexpectedly into the room. One of them was a girl whom he often passed in the corridors, He did not know her name, but he knew that she worked in the Fiction Department. Presumably – since he had sometimes seen her with oily hands and carrying a spanner – she had some mechanical job on one of the novel-writing machines. She had a narrow scarlet sash, emblem of the Junior Anti-Sex League, was wound several times around the waist of her overalls, just tightly enough to bring out the shapeliness of her hips. Winston had disliked her from the very first moment of seeing her. He knew the reason. It was because of the atmosphere of hockey fields and cold baths and community hikes and general cleanmindedness which she managed to carry about with her. He disliked nearly all women, and especially the young and pretty ones. It was always the women, and above all the young ones, who were the most bigoted adherents of the Party, the swallowers of slogans, the amateur spies and nosers-out of unorthodoxy. But this girl gave him the impression of being more dangerous than most. Once when they passed in the corridor she had given him a quick sidelong glance which seemed to pierce right into him and for a moment had filled him with black terror. The idea had even crossed his mind that she might be an agent of the Thought Police.
~!~
The Hate had started. As usual the face of Emmanuel Goldstein, the Enemy of the People, had flashed onto the screen. There were hisses here and there among the audience. Goldstein was the renegade and backslider who once, long ago, had been one of the leading figures of the Party, almost on a level with Big Brother himself, and then had engaged in counterrevolutionary activities, had been condemned to death, and had mysteriously escaped and disappeared. The program of the Two Minutes Hate varied from day to day, but there was none in which Goldstein was not the principal figure. He was the primal traitor, the earliest defiler of the Party’s purity. All subsequent crimes against the Party, all treacheries, acts of sabotage, heresies, deviations, sprang directly out of his teaching. Somewhere or other he was still alive and hatching his conspiracies: perhaps somewhere beyond the sea, under the protection of his foreign paymaster; perhaps even – so it was occasionally rumoured – in some hiding place in Oceania itself.
Goldstein’s was a lean Jewish face, with a great fuzzy aureole of white hair and a small goatee beard – a clever face, and yet somehow inherently despicable, with a kind of senile silliness.
Goldstein was delivering his usual venomous attack upon the doctrines of the Party – an attack so exaggerated and perverse that a child should have been able to see through it, and yet just plausible enough, to fill one with an alarmed feeling that other people, less level-headed than oneself, might be taken in by it. He was abusing Big Brother, he was denouncing the dictatorship of the Party, he was demanding the immediate conclusion of peace with Eurasia, he was advocating freedom of speech, freedom of the press, freedom of assembly, freedom of thought, he was crying hysterically that the revolution had been betrayed – and all this even contained Newspeak words: more Newspeak words, indeed, than any Party member would normally use in real life.
And all the while, lest one should be in any doubt as to the reality which Goldstein’s specious claptrap covered, behind his head on the telescreen there marched endless columns of the Eurasian army – row after row of solid-looking men with expressionless Asiatic faces, who swam up to the surface of the screen and vanished, to be replaced by others exactly similar.
The sight or even the thought of Goldstein produced fear and anger automatically. He was an object of hatred more constant than either Eurasia or Eastasia, since when Oceania was at war with one of these powers it was generally at peace with the other. But what was strange was that although Goldstein was hated and despised by everybody, although every day, and a thousand times a day, on platforms, on the telescreen, in newspapers, in books, his theories were refuted, smashed, ridiculed, held up to the general gaze for the pitiful rubbish that they were – in spite of all this, his influence never seemed to grow less. Always there were fresh dupes waiting to be seduced by him. A day never passed when spies and saboteurs acting under his directions were unmasked by the Thought Police. He was the commander of a vast shadowy army, an underground network of conspirators dedicated to the overthrow of the State. The Brotherhood, its name was supposed to be.
There were also whispered stories of a terrible book, a compendium of all the heresies, of which Goldstein was the author and which circulated clandestinely here and there. It was a book without a title. People referred to it, if at all, simply as the book. But one knew of such things only through vague rumours. Neither the Brotherhood nor the book was a subject that any ordinary Party member would mention if there was a way of avoiding it.
~!~
Curiously, the chiming of the hour seemed to have put new heart into him. He was a lonely ghost uttering a truth that nobody would ever hear. But so long as he uttered it, in some obscure way the continuity was not broken. It was not by making yourself heard but by staying sane that you carried on the human heritage. He went back to the table, dipped his pen, and wrote:

To the future or to the past, to a time when thought is free, when men are different from one another and do not live alone – to a time when truth exists and what is done cannot be undone:
From the age of uniformity, from the age of solitude, from the age of Big Brother, from the age of doublethink – greetings!
~!~
And the Records Department, after all, was itself only a single branch of the Ministry of Truth, whose primary job was not to reconstruct the past but to supply the citizens of Oceania with newspapers, films, textbooks, telescreen programs, plays, novels – with every conceivable kind of information, instruction, or entertainment, from a statue to a slogan, from a lyric poem to a biological treatise, and from a child’s spelling book to a Newspeak dictionary. And the Ministry had not only to supply the multifarious needs of the Party, but also to repeat the whole operation at a lower level for the benefit of the proletariat (proles). There was a whole chain of separate departments dealing with proletarian literature, music, drama, and entertainment generally. Here were produced rubbishy newspapers, containing almost nothing except sport, crime, and astrology, sensational five-cent novelettes, films oozing with sex, and sentimental love songs which were composed entirely by mechanical means on a speak kind of psychotronic kaleidoscope known as a versifactor. There was even a whole subsection – Pornosec, it was called in Newspeak – engaged in producing the lowest kind of pornography, which was sent out in sealed packets and which no Party member, other than those who worked on it, was permitted to look at.
~!~
The essence of oligarchical rule is not father-to-son inheritance, but the persistence of a certain world-view and a certain way of life, imposed by the dead upon the living. A ruling group is a ruling group so long as it can nominate its successors. The Party is not concerned with perpetuating its blood but with perpetuating itself. Who wields power is not important, provided that the hierarchical structure remains always the same.
All the beliefs, habits, tastes, emotions, mental attitudes that characterize our time are really designed to sustain the mystique of the Party and prevent the true nature of present-day society from being perceived. Physical rebellion, or any preliminary move toward rebellion is at present not possible. From the proletarians nothing is to be feared. Left to themselves, they will continue from generation to generation, working, breeding, and dying, not only without any impulse to rebel, but without the power of grasping that the world could be other than it is. They could only become dangerous if the advance of industrial technique made it necessary to educate them more highly; but, since military and commercial rivalry are no longer important, the level of popular education is actually declining.

What opinions the masses hold, or do not hold, is looked on as a matter of indifference. They can be granted intellectual liberty because they have no intellect. In a Party member, on the other hand, not even the smallest deviation of opinion on the most unimportant subject can be tolerated.
~!~
Crimestop means the faculty of stopping short, as though by instinct, at the threshold of any dangerous thought. It includes the power of not grasping analogies, of failing to perceive logical errors, of misunderstanding the simplest arguments if they are inimical to Ingsoc, and of being bored or repelled by any train of thought which is capable of leading in a heretical direction. Crimestop, in short, means protective stupidity. But stupidity is not enough. On the contrary, orthodoxy in the full sense demands a control over one’s mental processes as complete as that of a contortionist over his body.
Oceanic society rests ultimately on the belief that Big Brother is omnipotent and that the Party is infallible. But since in reality Big Brother is not omnipotent and the Party is not infallible, there is need for an unwearying, moment-to-moment flexibility in the treatment of facts. The key word here is blackwhite.
Like so many newspeak words, this word has two mutually contradictory meanings. Applied to an opponent, it means the habit of impudently claiming that black is white, in contradiction of the plain facts. Applied to a Party member, it means loyal willingness to say that black is white when Party discipline demands this. But it means also the ability to believe that black is white, and more, to know that black is white, and to forget that one has ever believed the contrary. This demands a continuous alteration of the past, made possible by the system of thought which really embraces all the rest, and which is known in Newspeak as doublethink.
~!~
In Oldspeak it is called quite frankly, “reality control.” In Newspeak it is called doublethink, although doublethink comprises much else as well.
Doublethink means the power of holding two contradictory beliefs in one’s mind simultaneously, and accepting both of them. The Party intellectual knows in which direction his memories must be altered; he therefore knows that he is playing tricks with reality; but by the exercise of doublethink he also satisfies himself that reality is not violated. The process has to be conscious, or it would not be carried out with sufficient precision, but it also has to be unconscious, or it would bring with it a feeling of falsity and hence of guilt.

Doublethink lies at the heart of Ingsoc, since the essential act of the Party is to use conscious deception while retaining the firmness of purpose that goes with complete honesty.

To tell deliberate lies while genuinely believing in them, to forget any fact that has become inconvenient, and then, when it becomes necessary again, to draw it back from oblivion for just so long as it is needed, to deny the existence of objective reality and all the while to take account of the reality which one denies – all this is indispensably necessary.
Even in using the word doublethink it is necessary to exercise doublethink. For by using the word one admits that one is tampering with reality; by a fresh act of doublethink one erases this knowledge; and so on indefinitely, it is by means of doublethink that the Party has been able – and may, for all we know, continue to be able for thousands of years – to arrest the course of history.
~!~
Even the names of the four Ministries by which we are governed exhibit a sort of impudence in their deliberate reversal of facts. The Ministry of Peace concerns itself with war; the Ministry of Truth with lies, the Ministry of Love with torture, the Ministry of Plenty with starvation.

These contradictions are not accidental, nor do they result from ordinary hypocrisy: they are deliberate exercises in doublethink. For it is only be reconciling contradictions that power can be retained indefinitely. In no other way could the ancient cycle be broken. If human equality is to be forever averted – if the High, as we have called them, are to keep their places permanently – then the prevailing mental condition must be controlled insanity.
~!~
Here we reach the central secret. As we have seen, the mystique of the Party, and above all the Inner Party, depends upon doublethink. But deeper than this lies the original motive, the never-questioned instinct that first led to the seizure of power and brought doublethink, the Thought Police, continuous warfare, and all the other necessary paraphernalia into existence afterwards. This motive really consists….
~!~
Now tell me why we cling to power. What is our motive? Why should we want power?
He knew in advance what O’Brien would say: that the Party did not seek power for its own ends, but only for the good of the majority. That it sought power because men in the mass were frail, cowardly creatures who could not endure liberty or face the truth, and must be ruled over and systematically deceived by others who were stronger than themselves. That the choice of mankind lay between freedom and happiness, and that, for the great bulk of mankind, happiness was better. That the Party was the eternal guardian of the weak, a dedicated sect doing evil that good might come.
The terrible thing thought Winston, was that when “O’Brian said this he would believe it. You could see it in his face. O’Brian knew everything. A thousand times better than Winston, he knew what the world was really like, in what degradation the mass of human beings lived and by what lies and barbarities the Party kept them there. He had understood it all, weighed it all, and it made no difference: all was justified for the ultimate purpose. What can you do, thought Winston, against a lunatic who is more intelligent than yourself, who gives your arguments a fair hearing and then simply persists in his lunacy?

“You are ruling us for our own good. You believe that human beings are not fit to govern themselves, and therefore…

“That was stupid, Winston, stupid!” he said. “You should know better than to say a thing like that.”
“Now I will tell you the answer to my question. It is this.

The Party seeks power entirely for it’s own sake. We are not interested in the good of others; we are interested solely in power. Not wealth or luxury or long life or happiness; only power, pure power….
“We are the priests of power,” he said. “God is power. But at present power is only a word so far as you are concerned. It is time for you to gather some idea of what power means…

~!~!~!~ ** ~!~!~!~ ~!~!~!~ ** ~!~!~!~

{Forest King Breaker}

Power vs. Force: The Hidden Determinants of Human Behaviour
By David R. Hawkins, M.D., Ph.D.

Chapter 19: The Database of Consciousness

Noting the ubiquity of archetypal patterns and symbols, Carl Jung coined the phrase “collective unconscious” – which refers to the bottomless, subsconscious pool of all of the shared experiences of the human race. We may think of it as a vast, hidden database of human awareness, which is characterized by powerful, universal organizing patterns. Such a database, comprised of all of the information ever available to human consciousness, implies stunning inherent capabilities; it’s far more than just a giant storehouse of information awaiting a retrieval process. The great promise of the database is its capacity to “know” virtually anything the moment it’s “asked,” for its able to tap in to all that has ever been experienced anywhere in time.
This database is the origin of all information obtained sub-or supranationally – by intuition or premonition; by divination or dream; or simply by “lucky” guess. It’s the foundation of genius, the well of inspiration, and the source of “uncanny” psychic knowledge, including the “foreknowledge.” It is, of course, the inventory drawn upon by kinesiological testing. Thinkers who are troubled by the notion of “paranormal” or nonrational knowledge usually balk at logical – or illogical – inconsistencies with Newtonian concepts of simultaneity, causality, or time and space. But it’s a bigger universe than that.
These same thinkers will scan the evening sky and find pleasure in identifying favourite constellations… but there aren’t any constellations. That familiar pattern of “stars” is made up of points of light originating from totally unrelated sources – some millions of light-years away; some in different galaxies; some actually separate galaxies themselves; many have, millennia since, burnt out and ceased to “exist”. Those lights have no spatial or temporal relationship; it isn’t only the shape of a dipper, bear or man, but the very pattern – the “constellation” itself – that’s projected on the sky by the eye of the beholder. Yet the zodiac is still “real” because we conceive it; astrology still “exists”, and for many people, it’s quite a useful tool in explaining themselves and their relationships. And why shouldn’t it be? The database of consciousness is, after all, an infinite resource.
~!~
The database behaves like an electrostatic condenser with a field potentiality, rather than a battery with a stored charge. A question can’t be asked unless there’s already the potentiality of the answer. The reason for this is that the question and answer are both created out of the same paradigm and, therefore, are exactly symmetrical – there can be no “up” without an already existent “down.” Causality occurs as simultaneity rather than as sequence; synchronicity is the term used by Jung to explain this phenomenon in human experience. As we understand from our examination of advanced physics, an event “here” in the universe doesn’t “cause” an event to occur “there” – instead, both appear at the same time.
What’s the connection between these events, then, if it isn’t Newtonian linear sequence of cause and effect? Obviously, the two are related or connected to each other in some invisible manner, but not by gravity or magnetism, or even by a cosmic field of such magnitude that it includes both events. The “connection” between any two events occurs only in the observer’s consciousness – he “sees” a connection and describes a “pair” of events, hypothesizing a relationship. This relationship is a concept in the mind of the observer; it isn’t necessary that any corollary external event exist in the universe. Unless there’s an underlying attractor pattern, nothing can be experienced. Thus, the entire manifest universe is its own simultaneous expression and experience of itself.
~!~
Omniscience is omnipotent and omnipresent. There’s no distance between the known and the unknown – the known is manifest from the unknown merely by the asking. For example, the Empire State Building was born in the mind of its architects – human consciousness is the agent that can transform an unseen concept into its manifested experience, which is therefore frozen in time. What “happened” on Fifth Avenue in New York City in 1931 is there for all to see, and what “happened” in the consciousness of its creators also stands recorded in the database for all to see to this day – both exist complete, but in different sensory domains. By transferring concept into concrete and steel, the architects simply enabled the rest of us to experience their vision.
~!~
The universe is very cooperative – as much as it isn’t different from consciousness itself, the universe is happy to create whatever we wish to find “out there”. The problem is with the concept of cause itself, which presumes that a time warp, a sequence, or a string of events will make sense. If we step outside of time, there are no causes at all. We could say that the manifest world originates out of the unmanifest, but that again would be inferring a sequential causal series in time, that is, unmanifest -> manifest.
~!~
Time, then, is much like a hologram that already stands complete; it’s a subjective, sensory effect of a progressively moving point of view. There’s no beginning or end to a hologram, it’s already everywhere, complete – in fact, the appearance of being “unfinished” is part of its completeness. Even the phenomenon of “unfoldment” itself reflects a limited point of view: There is no enfolded and unfolded universe, only a becoming universe. Our perception of events happening in time is analogous to a traveller watching the landscape unfold before him. But to say that the landscape unfolds before the traveller is merely a figure of speech – nothing is actually unfolding; nothing is actually becoming manifest. There’s only the progression of awareness.
These paradoxes dissolve in the greater paradigm that includes both opposites, wherein oppositions as such are only related to the locations of the observer. This transcendence of opposition occurs spontaneously at consciousness levels of 600 and above. The notion that there’s a “knower” and a ”known” is in itself dualistic, in that it implies a separation between subject and object (which again, can only be inferred by the artificial adoption of a point of observation). The Maker of all things in heaven and on Earth, of all things visible and invisible, stands beyond both, includes both, and is one with both. Existence, is, therefore, merely a statement that awareness is aware of its awareness and of its expression as consciousness.
Ontology need not be speculative – it is, after all, only the theology of existence; anyone who’s aware that he exists already has access to its highest formulations and beyond. There is only one absolute truth; all the rest are semi-facts spawned from the artefacts of limited perception and positionality. “To be or not to be” isn’t a choice; one may decide to be this or that, but to be is, simply, the only fact there is.
All of the foregoing has been expressed at various times in man’s intellectual history by sages who have moved beyond duality in their awareness. But even then, to claim that the comprehension of the nonduality of existence is superior to its realization as dual is again to fall into illusion. There is, ultimately, neither duality nor nonduality; there’s only awareness. Only awareness itself can state that it’s beyond all concepts such as “is” or “is not”. That must be so, because “is” can be conceived by consciousness itself.
Awareness itself is beyond even consciousness. Therefore, it may be said that the Absolute is unknowable exactly because it’s beyond knowing, or beyond the reach of consciousness itself. Those who have attained such a state of awareness report that it can’t be described and can have no meaning for anyone without the experience of that context. Nonetheless, this is the true state of Reality, universally and eternally – we merely fail to recognize it. Such a recognition is the essence of enlightenment and the final resolution of evolution of consciousness, to the point of self-transendence.
~!~
Like the theoretical physicist, the artist finds order in apparent chaos. For example, where there were only blocks of meaningless marble, Michelangelo saw David and the Pieta, and with his chisel, removed the surrounding stone to liberate those perfected images. And while contemplating the random patterns of a meaningless plaster wall in the Sistene Chapel, he conceived a wondrous ABC through the inspiration of art – and through the tactical technique of military art, he actualized the A -> B -> C known today as The Last Judgement.
Art and love are man’s greatest gifts to himself; and there can be no art without love. Art is always the making of the soul, the craft of a human being’s touch – which can be corporeal or of the mind and spirit.
~!~
Genius is often expressed through a change of perception – a modifying context or paradigm. The mind struggles with an unsolvable problem, poses a question, and is open to receive an answer. The source that this answer comes from has been given many names, varying from culture to culture and time to time, in the arts of western civilisation, its traditionally been identified with the Greek Goddesses of inspiration called the Muses.

~!~!~!~ ** ~!~!~!~ ~!~!~!~ ** ~!~!~!~

{Tramps Ascalon Treasure - U ST Thunder}

{BlackfootSwan-MoonHawkCrater}

Man’s Search for Meaning: An Introduction to Logotherapy
A Revised and Enlarged Edition of From Death-Camp to Existentialism
by Viktor E. Frankl
Preface by Gordon W. Allport

In Aushwitz I had laid down a rule for myself which proved to be a good one and which most of my comrades later followed. I generally answered all kinds of questions truthfully. But I was silent about anything that was not expressly asked for. If I were asked my age, I gave it. If asked about my profession, I said “doctor,” but did not elaborate. This first morning in Auschwitz an SS officer came to the parade ground. We had to fall into separate groups of prisoners over forty years, under forty years, metal workers, mechanics and so forth. Then we were examined for ruptures and some prisoners had to form a new group. The group that I was in was driven to another hut, where we lined up again. After being sorted out once more and having answered questions as to my age and profession, I was sent to another small group. Once more we were driven to another hut and grouped differently. This continued for some time, and I became quite unhappy, finding myself among strangers who spoke unintelligible foreign languages. Then came the last selection, and I found myself back in the group that had been with me in the first hut! They had barely noticed that I had been sent from hut to hut in the meantime. But I was aware that in those few minutes fate had passed me in many different forms.
When the transport of sick patients for the “rest camp” was organized, my name (that is, my number) was put on the list, since a few doctors were needed. But no one was convinced that the destination was really a rest camp. A few weeks previously the same transport had been prepared. Then, too, everyone had thought that it was destined for the gas ovens. When it was announced that anyone who volunteered for the dreaded night shift would be taken off the transport list, eighty-two prisoners volunteered immediately. A quarter of an hour later the transport was cancelled, but the eighty-two stayed on the list for the night shift. For the majority of them, this meant death within the next fortnight.
Now the transport for the rest camp was arranged for the second time. Again no one knew whether this was a ruse to obtain the last bit of work from the sick – if only for fourteen days – or whether it would go to the gas ovens or to a genuine rest camp. The chief doctor, who had taken a liking to me, told me furtively one evening at a quarter to ten, “I have made it known in the orderly room that you can still have your name crossed off the list; you may do so up till ten o’clock.”
I told him that this was not my way; that I had learned to let fate take it’s course. “I might as well stay with my friends,” I said. There was a look of pity in his eyes, as if he knew… He shook my hand silently, as though it were a farewell, not for life, but from life. Slowly I walked back to my hut. There I found a good friend waiting for me.
“You really want to go with them?” he asked sadly.
“Yes, I am going.”
Tears came to his eyes and I tried to comfort him. Then there was something else to do – to make my will:
“Listen, Otto, if I don’t get back home to my wife, and if you should see her again, then tell her that I talked of her daily, hourly. You remember. Secondly, I have loved her more than anyone. Thirdly, the short time I have been married to her outweighs everything, even all we have gone through here.”
Otto, where are you now? Are you alive? What has happened to you since our last hour together? Did you find your wife again? And do you remember how I made you learn my will by heart – word for word – in spite of your childlike tears?
The next morning I departed with the transport. This time was not a ruse. We were not heading for the gas chambers, and we actually did go to a rest camp. Those who had pitied me remained in a camp where famine was to rage even more fiercely than in our new camp. They tried to save themselves, but they only sealed their own fates. Months later, after liberation, I met a friend from the old camp. He related to me how he, as a camp policeman, had searched for a piece of human flesh that was missing from a pile of corpses. He confiscated it from a pot in which he found it cooking. Cannibalism had broken out. I had left just in time.
~!~
Does this not bring to mind the e-story of Death in Teheran? A rich and mighty Persian once walked in his garden with one of his servants. The servant cried that he had just encountered Death, who had threatened him. He begged his master to give him his fastest horse so that he could make haste and flee Teheran, which he could reach the same evening. The master consented and the servant galloped off on the horse. On returning to his house the master himself met Death, and questioned him, “Why did you terrify and threaten my servant?” “I did not threaten him; I only showed surprise in still finding him here when I planned to meet him tonight in Teheran,” said Death.
~!~

Spiders Web: Bush, Saddam, Thatcher and the Decade of Deceit
by Alan Friedman

On June 8, less than a week after the Brooks committee met, it emerged that back in April, Admiral Bobby Ray Inman, a top intelligence advisor to President Bush, had written a letter to a judge in Philadelphia trying to win a lighter prison sentence for James Guerin, the arms-maker from Lancaster, Pennsylvania. Guerin had already been convicted of $1billion fraud and of illegally transferring military technology to South Africa and Iraq. But Inman, who had been CIA deputy director until 1982 and was now serving as the acting chairman of the presidents foreign intelligence advisory board, called Guerin a patriot and revealed in the letter to the judge that he had worked secretly in the mid-1970’s with intelligence agencies. That was the period when Bush had been CIA director. The fact that an intelligence official as prominent as Inman, albeit one who had once served on Guerin’s proxy board, was willing to engage in special pleading for a convicted fraudster, raised further concern among Iraqgate investigators.
The pressure was building on George Bush himself, especially after Brooks’s Judiciary Committee sent a letter to the White House seeking the testimony of Boyden Gray, Nicholas Rostow, and Frank Lemay, the whistle-blower from the state Department who had tried to warn his superiors of the suspected use of U.S. government loan guarantees in Saddam’s nuclear weapons arsenal in 1989. The General Accounting Office had already told Gonzalez’s Banking Committee that it’s requests for Iraq papers had been delayed and thwarted by the Rostow group. By inviting Gray and Rostow, officials with personal knowledge of how the White House had coordinated its response to congressional investigations, the Judiciary Committee seemed to be sending a message: The same committee that had led the congressional charge in the Watergate affair was now focusing on the possibility that the Bush administration had moved to cover up actions in order to limit political damage.
Iraqgate was beginning to follow the president wherever he went. In Rio de Janeiro on June 13 for the UN earth summit, a reported asked Bush what he though of the House Judiciary Committee’s investigation. “I think it’s purely political,” said Bush, adding that as far as the administration was concerned, “we have had detailed testimony by Larry Eagleburger.” He said he didn’t know whether a special prosecutor would be named, but he offered his first formal defence against the cover-up charges: “We tried to bring Saddam Hussein into the family of nations. That policy was not successful.”
~!~
As in Atlanta, British government prosecutors in the Matrix-Churchill case had initially tried to withhold intelligence reports and other documents relating to Iraq. In the autumn of 1992, four ministers in John Major’s government signed papers to this effect, known as Public Interest Immunity Certificates. These ministers – Kenneth Clarke, the home secretary; Tristan Garel-Jones, a Foreign Office Minister; Michael Heseltine, the secretary of state for trade and industry; and Malcolm Rifkind, the secretary of state for defense – were determined to keep secret the history of Britains dealings with Iraq. The certificates informed the court that it would not be “in the public interest” for secret government documents to be released during the trial. The problem, it seemed, was one of national security. The certificates informed the court that it would not be “in the public interest” for secret government documents to be released during the trial. The problem, it seemed, was one of national security.
When Judge Brian Smedley asked to see the documents himself before pronouncing on their admissibility, they were brought to his room in safes. In addition to dozens of interdepartmental memos and letters, there were intelligence reports from the headquarters of both MI5 and MI6, the British Intelligence services. Such was the secrecy surrounding these agencies and their relations to government that the guard remained outside the judge’s room during an entire weekend as he studied the papers.
~!~
As the Matrix trial progressed, years of secret and cynical decisions by Margaret Thatcher’s government were laid bare in the Old Bailey courtroom. On November 2 an officer from MI5 took the stand, seated behind a paper screen to protect his identity. He confirmed that Mark Gutteridge, a Matrix executive, had reported on Dr. Gerald Bull’s Space Research Corporation. Geoffrey Roberston said Gutteridge first told MI5 about Bull and his supergun in May 1988. Secret documents showed that Matrix was being asked to provide machine tools for the supergun a year later, in October 1989. This was the same time that the Bush administration was approving it’s own export licences that enabled Dr. Bull to send sophisticated U.S. technology to Iraq’s supergun project. Gutteridge, it was later revealed in Paul Henderson’s autobiography, had provided detailed reports on Iraq’s procurement network as early as December 1987. The information provided by Gutteridge had been passed straight to the CIA.
On November 3, Paul Henderson’s controller at MI6, whose secret name was Balsam, took the stand and, like his colleague from MI5, gave evidence anonymously, seated behind the screen. He revealed that Henderson had first worked for British intelligence in the early 1970s, providing information on commercial contracts behind the Iron Curtain. He had been “reactivated” as an agent for MI6 between 1985 and 1986 for the same purpose, spying on Iraq’s military projects later in the 1980s.
“There are very few people who would take such risks and take them in their stride,” said the MI6 officer, as prosecutors shook their heads in the knowledge that their defendant was now being praised by a government official. Henderson, said the MI6 agent, had even handed over blueprints for a projectile capable of being fired twelve hundred kilometres and said Matrix Churchill had been approached by the Iraqis to make machine tools for the project, believed to be Gerald Bull’s supergun. And reports from Henderson’s meetings with MI6 were sent to a “very high ministerial level.”
It was becoming clearer each day to the jury that instead of violating Britain’s arms export rules, the Matrix shipments of militarily useful goods to Iraq had been approved by the government. The real question was becoming a different one: Who in the government had approved such shipments, and how could any intelligence-gathering operation justify sending vital equipment straight into Saddam’s war machine? The secret documents answered at least the first part of this question. They showed that Prime Minister Thatcher was herself kept informed about many of the sensitive exports. According to one memo, marked “Advice to Prime Minister,” government officials discussed the suitability of selling engines for minelaying vessels.”
There were thus some enormous question marks hanging over the trial when a somber-looking Alan Clark finally approached the witness box on November 4, 1992. Although he had been one of Thatcher’s most ardent supporters, Clark was an unlikely politician. He was a man who enjoyed all the trappings of privilege. He lived in a castle in Kent, drove a Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost as well as a Porsche, and had private wealth that had brought him, among other things, 27,000 acres in the Scottish Highlands and an inclination to speak his mind, often at the wrong moment and in colourful terms. To Clark, diplomatic turn of phrase did not seem to come easily. Evidence of the Matrix Churchill shipments to Iraq via Chile was first available back in 1987, but government ministers made a decision to let the exports go in order “to protect sources.”
The London court was told that a Matrix executive had worked for MI6 while the company was selling to Iraq. An August 1989 British intelligence telegram released during the trial showed that the executive had reported back both on BNL and on Iraq’s procurement network, which owned Matrix Churchill through a cascading series of front companies. The telegram also illustrated the closeness of the intelligence relationship between London and Washington, at one point suggesting “it would be useful if you could eventually get details from the Americans of other British and European companies involved in procurement.”
On October 26, while Frederick Lacey in Washington was privately telling the Bush administration that he needed to get further with his Iraqgate probe, the jury in the London trial was hearing from a government official that the Matrix Churchill executive who had worked for MI6 was Paul Henderson.

Pack of Thieves: How Hitler and Europe Plundered the Jews and Committed the Greatest Theft in History
by Richard Z. Chesnoff

Germany: The Plunder Plot
I would not want to be a Jew in Germany
~ Reichsmarschall Hermann Goring ~

Berlin’s main boulevard was not the best place for a young Jewish boy to be on the morning of November 10, 1938. But to the crowds that quietly packed the Kurfurstendamm the day after Kristallnacht, the thirteen-year old, blond-haired, blue-eyed youth in short pants and knee socks seemed the perfect “Aryan.” Six decades later, Michael Blumenthal still remembers every detail of the Nazi’s infamous orgy of anti-Semitic destruction and looting. “I have never forgotten the sight,” says the Holocaust survivor who went on to become an American Secretary of the Treasury. “Every Jewish store had been wrecked, glass from shop windows littered the sidewalks,… and from the direction of the major synagogue of the Fasanstrasse I could see rising clouds of smoke… No one helped. People just stared. There was a kind of strange silence.”
For Adolf Hitler and his most willing executioners, Jews were a cancer on society, a malignancy that had to be surgically but brutally excised with no anesthesia: The Jews of the world, declared Hitler, are “vermin.”
But for the Fuhrer and the clique of officers and technicians who helped him mastermind the mechanics of the Holocaust, Jews – particularly Europe’s Jews – represented much more: They were also a golden cow to be milked dry and eventually melted down for the greater glory and profit not only of the Reich but of those who fanatically supported it.
This state plunder was part and parcel of a coalescent ideology of exclusions, expropriation, and finally extermination. And in that wicked process of exclude and annihilate, the Reich managed to amass many of the multimillions needed to finance the brutal war it launched in 1939 and fought to defeat in May of 1945.
Germany’s program of economic exclusion of the Jews, and individual Nazi profiting from that exclusion, developed in overlapping stages. In early 1933, during the first days of the Hitler regime, it was Germany’s communists – not necessarily its Jews – who became prime targets of Hitler’s goon squad. In the aftermath of the February 27 Reichstagg Fire, almost 10,000 German Communist Party members were rounded up and shipped to the newly opened concentration camps. Only after the Nazis had consolidated their power did they launch the first steps in what was to be their systematic dehumanization and isolation of the country’s half million Jews.
The process was called Arisierung – Aryanization – the elimination of Jews from all aspects of German life. Though cloaked in racist ideology, its fulcrum was pragmatic: the systematic transfer of Jewish-owned businesses, factories, shops, and any other economic enterprise from the hands of the Jews who had built them to Aryan-German ownership. Marked by extortion and outright plunder, it would be a hallmark of Nazi rule in Germany and in the nations they Reich occupied during the six dark years it held sway over Europe.
“It was a way to dehumanize, to isolate and destroy,” says Nobel Prize-winning scholar and author Elie Wiesel. “It appealed to one of man’s basest desires: greed.”
Indeed, by early March 1933, swastika-armbanded squads of storm troopers had already begun a series of organized attacks mailing on East European Jews living in Germany. By March 13, they had begun forcibly closing Jewish shops – promoting first boycotts, then looting. Though initially limited to smaller provincial communities, the violence soon spread to cities. In the eastern town of Breslau (now Wroclaw, Poland), Jewish lawyers and even judges were attacked in the local courthouse and brutally beaten. In Munich, bands of S.A. (Sturmabteilung – Storm Troopers) men tore the beards of the faces of Orthodox Jews.
Larry Orbach of New Jersey, then five years old and called Lothar, recalls how, as the Nazis rose to power, his father was forced to sell their general store in the tiny Pomeranian village of Falkenberg.
.!.
Few voices were raised in protest. With a handful of notable exceptions, Germany’s church leaders, Catholic and Protestant, said or did nothing. Some even preached support for the economic and cultural ethnic cleansing. These laws, wrote the official Catholic Klerusblatt, are “indisputable safeguards for the qualitative make-up of the German people.” The measures against the Jews, declared Bishop Otto Dibelius, general superintendent of the Evangelical Church, “were perfectly justified.” And in a proclamation issued by the Evangelical Church, thanked “the Lord God” for having given the German people “a pious and trusty overlord.”
Amazingly, Nazi anti-Semitism provoked little panic among German Jews. In 1933, fewer than 38,000 of Germany’s 525,000 Jews chose to read the writing on the wall and leave Germany voluntarily. In the four years that followed, fewer than 100,000 more chose exile – tragic testimony to an overwhelmingly delusional German-Jewish conviction that Hitler and Nazism were merely a “passing madness.”
“Those were my fathers precise words,” recalls eighty-year-old Maria Bamberger, now a New Yorker but then a young Berlin Zionist. “My sister Eva and I tried to convince him that we should all leave for Palistein.” But Dr. Walter Weinberg, who would later flee to London, insisted, “Girls, this is passing madness; the German people will never put up with it.”
“They could not grasp it,” explains Saul Friedlander. “Most expected to weather the storm.”
~!~
~ With Criminal Intent: The Changing Face of Crime in South Africa ~
by Rob Marsh

The Nigerian Connection
~ Page 106 ~

Although no drugs are produced in Nigeria, the country’s drug-smuggling syndicates have established themselves as brokers and distributors, having built up a reputation in the early 1980s for smuggling southwest Asian heroin into Europe and the United States.
Africa has a history of cannabis production going back hundreds of years, but until recently has had no role to play in either the production or use of opium, heroin or cocaine. This situation began to change in the [early 1980s], when a group of Nigerian naval officers who were undergoing training in India realised the opportunity to make money by organising shipments of heroin from south-west Asia to Europe and the United States. It was not until the Nigerian economy collapsed in the [mid-1980s], however, that their efforts came to the attention of the authorities, by which time the smuggling rings were well established and fully operational.
The Nigerians tend to concentrate on using couriers who secrete the drugs on or in their bodies
[Raw-‘Roxy?-‘in any related ‘criminal’?: M.G.Inc.[gee@netactive.co.za?? hmm???]
[Ref: Monday, September 17, 2007 2:30 PM’]
They reputedly make a detailed study of the customs operations in the country of destination and frequently change the ‘profiles’ of the couriers they use. In recent years, for example, they have tended to use young white women, whom they feel are less likely to attract suspicion than West African people.
According to Robert Gelbard, the significance of the Nigerian connection is highlighted by the fact that, ‘… some 30% of heroin seized at US ports-of-entry in 1994 was taken from Nigerian-controlled couriers. As of December 1995, some 700 Nigerian traffickers were imprisoned in Thailand. From 1993 to 1995, Brazilian authorities arrested 42 Nigerians in possession of a total of 266 kilograms of cocaine. Brazil [hmm?] is the primary staging area for Nigerian for Nigerian cocaine shipments because of its close historical ties to Africa and its large ethnic African population. Nigerian-controlled traffickers have also been arrested in Colombia, Paraguay and several West African locations. Nigerian organisations are largely responsible for creating a significant market for cocaine in Europe and for spreading illegal drugs through West Africa.’
Attempts by law enforcement bodies in Africa to thwart the Nigerian connection have been disappointing because of corruption and a lack of motivation to address the problem. There is growing evidence that the Nigerians are now targeting southern Africa as a market for their products. In 1993, for example, more than half the cocaine seized in South Africa was taken from Nigerians, and Nigerian heroin ‘cells’ have already been established in the country to facilitate heroin and cocaine transhipment to other parts of the world.

~ The Endangered Species Protection Unit ~
~ Page 121 (?) ~

The Endangered Species Protection Unit (ESPU), led by Senior Superintendent Pieter Lategan, was set up in 1989 at the insistence of then minister of Law and Order, Adriaan Vlok. This followed a request to the Minister for the establishment of a police unit specialising in this area of investigation during a Rhino protection conference held at Skukuza in the Kruger National Park.
ESPU, which began life as a one-man operation, now consists of 45 officers. Plans to increase this number to 80 are currently on hold due to ‘financial constraints’.
ESPU’s field of operation has broadened considerably over the years. From its original brief, which was to investigate the illegal trade in rhino horn and ivory, the unit now investigates the illegal trade in flora, including endangered plant species, mostly cyads and succulents; fauna – common and endangered animal species – including spiders, iguanas, tortoises and snakes; and, at the request of the Interpol sub-group on environmental crime, the illegal dumping of radioactive and toxic waste. On occasion, ESPU conducts investigations on behalf of the departments of Water and Environmental Affairs and the Council for Nuclear Safety.
Apart from its normal policing duties, ESPU has, out of ‘necessity’, to carry out under-cover operations. One of it’s most notable successes was the highly publicised ‘Operation Cobra’ in which an ESPU officer successfully infiltrated and smashed an international syndicate smuggling reptiles.
Operation Cobra evolved out of a report from the Interpol sub-group on the Illegal Trade in Wild Fauna and Flora. The report, which was based on an Interpol analysis named ‘Project Noah’, indicated that South Africa was a major supplier of reptiles to a ‘pet’ reptile market that was growing at an alarming rate [~in a tiny house, in some backyard, drooling and eating her own poop. Sad~]
An entire industry, complete with reptile gimmicks and specialist publications had sprung up in both Europe and the United States, and it was known that millions of Rands worth of animals were leaving the country illegally. It was also known that most reptile (indeed!?) traders were connected in one way or another and that many deals were being done over the telephone.
To counter this trade, Superintendent Pierre Erasmus, an experienced undercover officer, moved to George and, in the guise of a property developer [~in a tiny house, in some backyard, drooling and eating her own poop. Sad~] made contact with a suspect named Kurt Kennell. This was the beginning of a…

~ Murder by Request ~
~ Page 151 ~
The relevance of terminal ballistics became apparent during the sensational Baron Dieter von Schauroth murder case in Capetown in 1961.
Von Schauroth was shot to death by his ‘friend’ and bodyguard, Marthinus Rossouw, on the old Malmesbury Road outside Capetown on the night of 24 March 1961. At his subsequent trial, Rossouw claimed that Von Schauroth had begged to be killed. This was the first defence of its kind and was to lead to a new classification of murder: murder by request. Evidence led by a ‘forensic expert’, however, cast doubt on Rossouw’s version of events at the site of the killing and contributed to ‘his’ conviction.
About a year before his murder, Von Schauroth (36) had been forced through lack of money to abandon his sheep farm in Karasburg, South West Africa (now Namibia), and move to Capetown with his young wife, Colleen (19). Unfortunately, however, his financial circumstances did not improve.
Not long after his arrival in Capetown, Von Schauroth struck up an acquaintance with Rossouw, a 23-year-old railway fitter who acted as his bodyguard cum chauffeur.
On the morning of Saturday, 25 March, Von Schauroth’s body was found at the roadside, about 24 km outside Capetown. There were a number of uncut diamonds scattered around the corpse and two shell casings on the ground: one near the head and one near the feet. The victim had been shot twice in the neck, just above the collar.
Three days later, the police arrested Rossouw and charged him with the murder of his former employer. In his defence, Rossouw claimed that Von Schauroth was a desperately unhappy man. To add to his financial woes, there had been talk that his wife was being unfaithful. According to Rossouw, the baron wanted to commit suicide, but could not do so, since this would negate his funeral insurance policies.
On the night in question, Von Schauroth and Rossouw went to a hotel in Milnerton, then drove along the old Malmesbury Road.
Rossouw said: I thought he was trying to frighten me. He then turned around and said: “Marthiens, I want you to shoot me.”
I said, “No, it’s too dangerous.” He pleaded with me and said there were no witnesses and that it would look like a diamond transaction. He said he could not commit suicide or his wife would not be able to collect the insurance money. He again turned his back on me and said, “Please, Marthiens, shoot me.” I replied, “No, Dieter, I cannot.”
“He pleaded with me for five or ten minutes. He said he wanted to go to a place where there were no women. He then turned around and we shook hands…

The Hunt for Red October
by Tom Clancy

~ The Second Day: Saturday, 04 December ~
~ The Red October ~
~ Seve7romorsk, USSR ~

Page 24
~ As long as the bosses pretend to pay us, we will pretend to work... ~

~ Now sailors acted like czarist princes and write tons of letters back and forth and called it work ~

“And the privileges! Every word they committed to paper was priority mail. Whimpering letters to their sweethearts, most of it, and here he was sorting through it all on a Saturday to see that it got to their womenfolk – even though they couldn’t possibly have a reply for two weeks. The letter would be placed aboard the train a day late. The sorter didn’t care. There was a hockey game that night, the biggest game of the young season, Central Army against Wings. He had a litre of vodka bet on Red Wings.”

~ Fighting Sailor, Ph.D [Poehpol Doctor?] (?) ~
Morrow, England

‘Halsey’s greatest popular success was his greatest error. In establishing himself as a popular hero with legendary aggressiveness, the admiral would blind later generations to his impressive intellectual abilities and shrewd gambler’s instincts to ~~ “

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{SageRedRussian-RedArticBell}

{Wild ~ Lavinder ~ Wolf}

Yuri Ivanovich Drozdov, formerly Resident in New York, was a devoted fan of the writer Frederick Forsyth. He told Gordievsky that his novel The Fourth Protocol was 'essential reading'. The book described what Drozdov regarded as the ultimate fantasy of a KGB special operations expert: the explosion by Soviet agents of a small nuclear device near a US airbase in Brittain just before a general election, with the aim of bringing to power a left-wing neutralist government.

Legend About a Legend

{RainbowSealCove-JacksonsWhiteArmSwan}

In October 1989, Kryuchkov announced the abolition of the Fifth Directorate which had hitherto monitored dissident intellectuals, and the creation of a new Directorate for the Defense of the Soviet Constitutional System to coordinate the struggle against 'the orgy of terrorism which has swept the world since the early 1970s.' He revealed that during the 1970s the KGB had identified in the Soviet Union 'more than 1,500 individuals with terrorist designs.'

Simultaneously, Kryuchkov despated two recently retired senior KGB officers, Lieutenant-General Fyodor Scherback, former deputy head of the second Chief Directorate, and Major-General Valentin Zvezdenkov, a former counter-terrorist expert from the same directorate, to take part with former senior CIA officers in a private conference in California to discuss methods of combatting terrorism.

Kryuchkov set clear limits to the unprecedented peace-time intelligence collaboration he was proposing:

Intelligence is a game without rules. There are certain specific features, which I regret to say, prevent us from reaching agreement with anyone on how and according to which rules we should conduct intelligence operations against one another. But I think we should always have decency, even in our business.

One of the consequences of the limited collaboration proposed by Kruchkov was some decline in the traditional demonisation of Western intelligence services. As recently as the final years of the Brezhneve era, the Soviet press, when denouncing the CIA, commongly excoriated, 'the repulsive bared teeth of the monster fed on the money of unsuspecting taxpayers, a monster which trampled underfoot all norms of morality and insulted the dignity of an entire nation.'

In 1991, Mikhael Lyubmimov published LEGEND ABOUT A LEGEND, a farce lampooning the enormously expensive secret war between the KGB and the CIA. Moscow News suggested that it would make a 'good musical comedy.'

Active Wet Affairs Measures

Under Serov, Department 13 of the First Chief Directorate, which was responsible for 'wet affairs' had suffered several public embarrassments. After the failure to liquidate the emigre National Labour Alliance (NTS) leader, Georgi Okolovich, in Frankfurt and the defection of the KGB assassin, Nikolai Khokhlov, in 1954, a German contract killer, Wolfgang Wildprett, was hired by Department 13 to assassinate the NTS President Vladimir Poremsky, in 1955.

Like Khokholov, however, Wildprett had second thoughts and told the West German police.

In September 1957 a department 13 attempt to poison Khokhlov with radioactive thallium (chosen in the belief that it would leave no trace at autopsy) also failed. These failures, however, were followed by the successful assassination of two leading Ukrainian emigres in West Germany: the main NTS ideologist, Lev Rebet, in October 1957, and the head of the Organisation of Ukrainian Nationalists (OUN), Stepan Bandera, in October 1959.

These liquidations persuaded Khruschev, who personally authorised both of them, and Shelepin that selective assassination remained a necessary part of KGB foreign operations.

The Department 13 assassin in each case, only twenty-five years of age when he killed Rebet, was Bogdan Stashinsky, who operated out of the KGB compound in Karlshorst. His murder weapon, devised by the KGB weapons laboratory at Khozyaistvo Zheleznovo, was a spray gun which fired a jet of poison gas from a crushed cyanide ampule, inducing cardiac arrest in the victim.

Department 13 calculated, correctly, that an unsuspecting pathologist was likely to diagnose the cause of death as heart failure. Stashinsky killed both Rebet and Bandera by lying in wait for them in darkened stairways.

At a ceremony in the Centre, Shelepin presented him with the Order of the Red Banner and read aloud a citation praising him 'for carrying out an extremely important government assignment.' Stashinsky was told that he would be sent on a course to perfect his German and learn English, following which he would spend three to five years in the West carrying out further 'assignments' of the kind which had won him the Red Banner. What was expected of him, said Shelepin, was 'difficult, but honourable.'

Like Khokhlov and Wildprett, however Stashinsky had second thoughts about assassination, encouraged by his anti-Communist East German girlfriend, Inge Pohl, whom he married in 1960. In August 1961, one day before the Berlin Wall sealed off the escape route from the East, the couple defected to the West. Stashinsky confessed to the assassination of Rebet and Bandera, was put on trial at Karlsruhe in October 1962 and sentenced to eight years imprisonment as accomplice to murder. The judge declared that the main culprit was the Soviet government which had institutionalised political murder. Heads were quick to roll within the KGB. According to Anatoli Golisyn, who defected four months after Stashinsky, at least seventeen KGB officers were sacked or demoted. More importantly, the Khokhlov and Stashinsky defections led both the Politburo and the KGB leadership to reassess the risks of 'wet affairs'. After the worldwide publicity generated by Stashinsky's trial, the Politburo abandoned assassination by the KGB as a normal instrument of policy outside the Soviet bloc, resorting to it only on rare occassions such as the liquidation of President Hafizullah Amin in Afghanistan in December 1979.

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At Golubevs request, the KBG main residency in Washington purchased several umbrellas and sent them to the Centre. Directorate OTU adapted the tip to enable it to inject the victim with a tiny metal pellet containing ricin, a highly toxic poison made from castor-oil seeds. Golubev then took the umbrellas to Sofia to instruct a DS assassin in their use. The first victim was Georgi Markov, then working for the Bulgarian section of the BBC World Service. Before he died in hospital, Markov was able to tell doctors that he had been bumped into by a stranger on Westminster Bridge who apologised for accidentally prodding him with his umbrella.

A second assassination attempt a week later in Paris against another Bulgarian emigre, Vladimir Kostov....

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