Those skilled at making the enemy move do so by creating a situation to which he must conform; they entice him with something he is certain to take, and with lures of ostensible profit, they await him in strength. Sun Tsu
Coincident to the last substack, I received news of an incentive to turn shark fin purveyors into tourist providers. Many of these former shark hunters gratefully earn more money now in eco-tourism bookings than killing sharks, says the news.
How can we know what news is actually true? Are those shark hunters really earning more? Are they actually grateful? What exactly is the price difference between skinning a shark and skinning a tourist? A conservation scientist says we are never going to solve biodiversity and environment issues unless we think about incentives and take local peoples needs into account.
I wonder what might happen if conservation scientists, as they like to be called, looked up into the overarching economics of our day, rather than looking down at the gente pobre who need to earn their daily bread. And what if they looked sideways at the dwindling opportunities most people have for travel as tourists, people who might like to explore former shark hunting grounds?
All of it adds up, or subtracts as the case may be, to increasing despair and poverty in places that once held their own in the balance of life. But then markets got bigger and consumers addicted. Suddenly there arent enough sharks to go around. Could conservation scientists, working clandestinely as social workers, begin to look at the things we crave and do not need, rather than making unsolicited plans for the people who have satisfied our addictions?
It does however add up to creating more controls and claiming more property from the people of the earth. I dont mean you and I in our smart metered houses of convenience and constancy. I mean the people who are still remarkably in synch with the earth and its rhythms. They too are becoming extinct, slowly and surely being lured into conservation commerce, divorced from nature and their common earthly ways.
We shouldnt feel so smug and safe within our imagined private properties. The laws of commerce and security entitlements are closing in. The powerful creditors who control our governments have established their legal certainty worldwide. One piece of their Jenga tower expertly removed, and the whole tower comes crashing down with all the chips landing squarely upon their legalized monopoly. What crashes for us is a big win in their playbook. Everything we thought we owned is theirs by way of collateral.
Maybe theres a trickle-down effect sprinkling on the heads of conservation scientists. Where they have been herded, they in turn might like to herd others, too. Maybe like the motorhead, moving his sheep in and out of his pastures of indoctrination.
Frankly, Im bored with considering Johns psychology. It may not even be psychopathy to give consideration to anymore. He may be directly plugged in to a power that shouldnt be, moved by one of those entities he likes to warn his disciples against.
Anyway! Its my own naiveté I need to face head on, where I am susceptible to being bought, sold and herded. Then take care of what remains, something indestructible that he never touched and never could.
I will say one thing: hes a control freak. His hypnosis stage show purposefully used to wow and control people. His sexual demands accruing more control and power. Once he had you, he had ways of keeping you, enticing you, binding you, as loathsome as the devil, or Epstein if you like a larger fiend. His greed was an insidious imperative on our everyday lives. We needed to carefully budget for all that was required of us, to show up for his greater reality. Meaning greater for him and less for us. Not that there were rules. Not that there was a roll call or an attendance sheet. It wasnt like taxation or the enslavement of a mortgage. No, it was an unspoken necessity that we participate, contribute and not hold anything back. It was a message that came whispered in gossamer hints alongside his so-called spiritual teachings. It was the messages soaked in beatific metaphors of word soup, and laced with his pernicious need for more that infused us, confused us, until we made it our own, made in his image and made for his compulsions. Somehow he managed to instil in us the belief that it was for our own sakes that he needed so much.
If youve been reading along over the last year, you know my mother was a difficult person to live with. Her priorities were unusual, materialistic and often selfish. She had cultured tastes and a passion for the importance of private property, especially hers. Were she alive today she very well could be in bed with the global leaders of our time. Thats her turn of a phrase. For her, corruption meant someone was in bed with someone. If she found any influencer odious, she would stab the air with her finger and shout, He should be shot! Its a blessing I didnt become an assassin growing up under her roof.
After she passed there was some insurance money that came. This was insurance we paid for so she might have some security after death that her property would be cared for, and that we would have funds for that care. Zoom out to the cult-at-large to discover secured creditors pushing from the highest levels of government for global control of securities & property, through a few generations of legal manipulations that no one sees. My mothers plan was nominally like that, not so devious really, not covert either. She simply wanted to protect what was hers, beyond her own lifetime. She made no bones about it.
The backcountry guru, the one I call the motorhead in order to give definition to his persona as well as blurr his particularizing features, managed some of his securities with a volunteer group labeled something ironic, something like The Wealthy Givers. If anyone amongst us had once been wealthy, those dollars, millions of them, had been deftly absorbed by the motorhead early on in his dealings with generous folks. The Wealthy Givers went through a few mutations and was later relabeled to mean something akin to a lifeboat.
The Lifeboats of Wealth, I will call it, is a front that looks like a charity. It collects donations the way the motorhead collects followers. It enables penniless seekers to find their way through the multiple turnstiles of fees and charges that are required weekly to participate in his shitshow. People in the community are encouraged to give to the Lifeboats of Wealth for the benefit others. What could so simply be a direct gift from the benevolent guru to his devoted sheep instead becomes the loftier prescription to take care of others. Something like taking an experimental spike shot for the sake of others, and by the kindness of good humans exploited, we gave to our brethren, righteous and free to do so.
We gave what we could afford and the Board in charge of Lifeboats mulled and mused about who should receive aid. As they mulled and mused, the coffers grew and grew. The Board was not immune to sly seekers abusing the system either. Not technically in need, there was one young family, part of the inner circle of John-lovers, that the Lifeboats dropped effortlessly for, one of the most flush couples in the clan, pulling money from the growing Lifeboat coffers to bankroll their move up north. Christen that boat with a bottle of Prosecco!
There was a lot of money raised through community projects, auctions and monthly donations. Events were created in order to increase the wealth of Lifeboats and thereby have more to give to the community. Seemingly out of nowhere and due to a technicality— it wasnt international law like the globalists have created— but due to Johns need for control, the funds went directly into his accounts and the Board had to request their gifts through his administration. Did I mention there were no salaries for this hardworking committee? There are no salaries for the majority of work that is done for John. If there is a salary it is the minimum and whatever your status as a worker bee, you are meant to be grateful for the opportunity to slave away for him. We are like a big beehive, said the motorhead, buzz buzz. Nowadays, worker bees show up in disguises at Johns door, for what kind of work, its likely his probation officer will never know— whoever they are, for whatever purpose, theyre in disguise!
Stories continue leaking from the other side of his wall. His need for control. His talking about a time he buried his dog in freezing snow and wouldnt let her move until he said so. That is the kind of control he desires, what he takes, with pleasure, at the expense of anothers well being.
That motorhead worked a never-ending squeeze on most of us for more and more money over a long period of time. The Wealth of Lifeboats was just another squeeze. If he found out someone was benefitting from a lifeboat due to loss or injury, that their living expenses were being covered, that had to stop. The money could only go to him, for his meetings, his seminars, his products. That was the end result of a charity originally meant for the well being of people in the community, for their health needs, dental needs, or living expenses during hard times. That was the charitable intent at the inception of Lifeboats. All too soon it became his to have and only his to administer. Think of all the foreign aid that has gone to Palestine but gets sucked up by Hamas. Like that.
Im avoiding where I meant to go.
I loved John. Truer to say, I loved the idea of John. The idea that a person could embody truth and live from a core-splitting honesty, broadcasting real knowledge, and never be burdened by the irritations and anxieties I met with on a daily basis. I helped to hold him up on his bogus pedestal of alien love, so kind. As if he could do no wrong, like everyone close to him is led to believe. Most everyone. Many have left. Unbelievers and rogues who lacked the necessary depth of understanding, said the motorhead, dry eyed and unblinking. Eight charges of sexual assault against him and he still manages to fool his few remaining followers.
We are not mad. We are human. We want to love, and someone must forgive us for the paths we take to love, for the paths are many and dark, and we are ardent and cruel in our journey. Leonard Cohen
Im having difficulty conveying the admiration I once had for that motorhead. The experience has become as tainted and contaminated as a covid shot. Its impossible to return to that place where you might believe me, I thought he was stunning. Rather, the idea of him was stunning. That a human being could be so extraordinary. The specific qualities I once imagined in him do not rise up in me anymore to recount. Those qualities no longer ring true.
But once upon a time I was a believer. When Mothers insurance came through and the executer of her will did not after all absorb it into the maintenance of her property, there I was with a small lifeboat of wealth. So I gave a proper tithe of it, as if I was giving to a church or clergy. Not to him directly, but to his accountant for the sake of his alleged college. That was another idea I loved, that we were all learning something of higher knowledge in his College. My memory is thorny revisiting those times when I was fully enrapt with his Svengali routine. Back then, I must admit, I had no doubts at all. It was all good, and that was that, without conditions.
My chest hurts as I think of that time now. All of it was his time, while my own time was swept away in a make-believe commitment to an entity that laid hold of power and control over us and we didnt even realize it.
I know. Ive read the comments. About how stupid someone must be to fall for such cock and bull. If you have yet to meet David Rogers Webb, this might be a good time to do so, with consideration for who is using your money, for what, and how the powers that shouldnt be may get the better of most everyone.
I wrote a cheque to the college. Afterwards we all sat through a slough of meetings devoted to the subject of conditions. We should put no conditions on our knowing. Conditions only limit greater reality and its best to dispense with such constraints put upon our true beingness. After a barrage of brain numbing talks about conditions, it was, literally, a no brainer when I was approached before a meeting, led to an endarkened corner of the hall, and asked if I would mind (what mind) changing the recipient of my donation from the college to John Him Self. That way it could be accounted for as a gift directly to him, and with his birthday just around the corner, it would all look clean as clean can be, without that unnecessary condition of it being earmarked for the College. Who knows if there was even an account for The College? To be honest, that conversation had an air of cloak and dagger about it, secretive and whispered in a dark corner. I said yes, and that was that. Without conditions.
My husband just reminded me of an IRA I cashed in many years ago, for the sake of Johns College, a big building project that cost millions and was built with donations, and in part by volunteer tradesmen. I have to move quickly right here, past the feelings of self reproach and disgust. I was swept up in his greater reality. I was gone into a hypnotic state of awe and wonder. I couldnt see clearly because I didnt bother to look. Maybe the same happens to investors in the intoxicating game of gaining more and more. Turns out those investments may not be any more secure in returns than the piles of money so many of us have poured into Johns reserves.
In part, my relationship with money has created this story, living as I have in the easy come, easy go racket of finances. Ive worked a lot and earned some, saved some, inherited a little, and shared most of it. Ive spent and given money with greater awareness than casting a vote, believing money is the best voting power I have. I gave to The College because it had meaning to me. I imagined we were integrating higher ideals and concepts, while becoming more responsible with our lives than so many addicted consumers.
I remember some people in the group relating to every necessity they bought in comparison to the cost of a motorheads meeting. Groceries: 5 meetings. Bus pass: 6 meetings. Rent: one seminar. Like the servers in Tortugeuro, one had to live very carefully. Sometimes groceries were forsaken for a weekend pass to the meetings.
Looking back at the years in the cult and all that we gave to it, I see now that he shamelessly robbed us. For him, its his livelihood. For me, its difficult to wrap my head around a mindset that shamelessly takes from others for ones own sake. I dont know why that seems so unusual to me, after living from birth to fifteen years with my mothers perspective arching over my life. Like the motorhead, she made it seem as though she was deserving of all she wanted. That it was for something great and good, but I never got what that was. It seemed a way to keep her securities secure beyond her own life time. Now it appears that there is another lineage, hidden from view, that connives in our world with an aim to take everything and we are to be left with nothing. Strange mindset.
We need to hold to the vision we had when we joined the motorhead. We signed up for loving kindness, honesty, and purity of heart. We didnt know he was a motorhead, a motor for unseen levels of ponerology, a minion for darker entities to wield their seductive schemes on good people. Some force, much greater than any motorhead, created sensational experiences for us believers in those meetings. That force is creating sensational experiences for believers on the world stage, too.
There once was a fan shaped hall filled with lovers of truth. They were entrained by one of the devils minions, made to believe the devil is divine. We were there and we believed a motorhead was being good and true, and that we could be too.
And we can be.
You must leave now, take what you need, you think will last
But whatever you wish to keep, you better grab it fast
Yonder stands your orphan with his gun
Crying like a fire in the sun
Look out the saints are comin’ through
And it’s all over now, Baby Blue
The highway is for gamblers, better use your sense
Take what you have gathered from coincidence
The empty-handed painter from your streets
Is drawing crazy patterns on your sheets
This sky, too, is folding under you
And its all over now, Baby Blue
All your seasick sailors, they are rowing home
Your empty handed armies, theyre all going home
The lover who just walked out your door
Has taken all his blankets from the floor
The carpet, too, is moving under you
And its all over now, Baby Blue
Leave your stepping stones behind, something calls for you
Forget the dead youve left, they will not follow you
The vagabond who’s rapping at your door
Is standing in the clothes that you once wore
Strike another match, go start anew
And its all over now, Baby Blue
“Swindlers” perfect title. So true.
I’m sure this same bs has happened to many, in secret. Always in secret...
He should give you your money back plus interest.
Without any strings attached.
It is something that these poor immigrant sweeties are still volunteering for the millionaires!
Keep writing Jess! Your perspective needs voice.
✨
Yes swindlers exactly! I feel quite stupid for giving money to an imagined project and false guru. Thanks for writing so beautifully Jess . I love it.