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Chapter Twenty Five

Break His Bones:

The Private Life of A Holocaust Revisionist

Chapter Twenty Five

 

I’m standing in the dirt alongside the main drag in town, Benito Juarez, watching the movement of the sow’s belly as she breaths in and out. She’s white with sorrel splotches, close to three hundred pounds. There’s a chain link fence half-fallen down, a little dirt yard filled with trash and junk, and then a dirty, two-story stuccoed house with its windows boarded up.

After awhile an old Mexican guy about my age comes up, and with an English I can understand if I listen carefully, says:

“That is some pig.”

“I think so.”

“She knows who is good and who is bad.”

“Is that right?” When he smiles he has only two teeth in his lower jaw. One is broken off at the gum line.

“I could tell you a lot about this pig.”

A young boy comes out of the upholstery shack next door, pauses to kick the pig a couple times, then goes on his way. The pig doesn’t pay any attention to the boy.

“The pig does not like that boy,” the Mexican says. “She knows everyone in town.”

“Yeah?”

“She can see auras. She knows who has one and who does not.”

“Yeah? How did you find that out?”

“I asked her. This pig and me, we have a lot in common.”

“Do you see auras?”

“No, not that way. I mean, I know how it feels to eat garbage and sleep in the dirt. I respect her, and she respects me.”

I tell him how some mornings I see this pig grazing in the gutter when I drive Paloma to school. It’s a nice way to start the day, driving slowly along the main drag, the sun coming up over the plateau to the east, a little mist blowing off the ocean here and there, and a three-hundred pound hog loose on the Boulevard.

“She enjoys those mornings as much as you do. This pig has a soul just like you and me. You can take that to the bank.”

I laugh and he laughs.

“If you want to learn something about pigs, read that English guy-about the animal farm?”

“Orwell?”

“That’s right. George Orwell. There was a man who understood pigs. Have you read Orwell?”

“Some of him.”

“It is good to talk to an educated man. Orwell was a big man. He was right about pigs, and he was right about communists. A very big man.”

“I hadn’t thought to think of Orwell that way.”

“Can you doubt it?”

“I don’t think I can. Who owns her?”

“The pig? An ex-federale. You have probably seen him on the street. He is not quite right. Too much dope, too many shootings. You know how it is with Mexican federales.”

“Maybe.”

“You are not a man to judge others quickly. I like that. Mexicans judge everybody right away. They cannot wait to judge you. This pig, she will never judge you. No matter what you do, she will not judge you.”

“I like that in a pig.”

“She does not like that boy that kicked her. But she will not judge him.”

“Uh huh.”

“She is like my wife that way.”

“Your wife?”

“Yes. My wife. I met her in La Paz thirty years ago. Longer. I was sleeping under a bridge in La Paz. There was just us tramps and some animals. Those were good days. They were okay days. One morning she drove down in a pickup looking for stray dogs. She was American. She loves dogs. She finds stray dogs and takes care of them and finds them owners. All her life she has been like that. She is an educated woman. Not like me. I don’t know nothing. That morning, instead of taking one of those lost dogs, she took me. She said there was something about me. She said there was a light near me, like it moved when I moved. I did not know what to think, but I wanted to go with her. She said she would make something out of me. That she would start from nothing, which is what I was, and make me into something special. She did a hell of a job, but she didn’t know how hard it would be. Now here I am. I am a changed man-and I am still nothing.”

He laughs and I laugh. We watch the sow breathe.

Gradually he finds out that I’ve read Huxley, even Philip Wylie, and the Hindus and Buddhists and the Zen people. He puts his arm around my shoulders and hugs me. There are people passing back and forth. He says: “I like a man who reads books and knows how to laugh and does not judge others.”

After awhile he finds out that I read Krishnamurti.

“Oh, my,” he says. “Krishnamurti was the one who was in my wife’s heart.”

I’m starting to get in the mood. “Have you read Casteneada?”

He jumps away from me, laughs and slaps both his legs. “Casteneada! Sure I have read Casteneda. You have read Casteneada? You see what this pig has done? She has brought us together. You are the first person I have met in this town who has read Krishnamurti and Casteneda too.”

He bends down and rubs his hand over the sow’s heaving belly. “I love you, pig,” he says. “You are my querida,” he says to her. “You are my dear one.”

I am a changed man too. Who is not? I’m the same man I have always been but I am less and less. At the same time, there’s still a lot of me around. I wonder if my new friend really has become nothing.

That morning I was upstairs in the office working on a newspaper article, waiting for my computer technician to arrive. He was to up-grade my motherboard, CPU and fan. Two hundred and fifty dollars that I didn’t really have but was going to spend anyhow because I had kicked off the first step in the campus project and wanted to be able to move quickly as the first stories developed.

The technician was late, which in Baja is not that unusual, but when I was about to call him he called me to say he had been watching television and that the World Trade Center had been attacked by airplanes and that it was gone.

“Ignacio, have you been watching Mexican soap opera?”

“I am not making a joke. It was attacked and it is gone.”

“You mean it has been damaged?”

“No. It is gone. It is not there. Gone. I have never seen anything like it. That is why I am late. I have been watching the television for two hours. Do you mean that you do not know?”

“I do not watch television during the day.”

“That is good. You work. I called you to tell you why I am late. It is incredible. The World Trade Center is gone. I will be right over.”

I went downstairs, turned on the television and saw the airplane bank to it’s left and smash inside one of the World Trade Center towers. I watched it several times. The tower was still standing. How could Ignacio be so wrong? Then I saw the camera shots where first one tower exploded and collapsed, then the other. It was astounding. The visual images were so arresting that for several moments the mind was thoughtless. When thought did come back it was not to empathize with those inside the Towers and the mad horror and pain that they must have been suffering, but to report that I was watching Arabs respond to half a century of America’s heartless support of Israel, half a century of Palestinian Arabs being brutalized and humiliated by Israeli Jews.

I was entirely ignorant of the facts of who had planned and carried out the attack or why. Nevertheless, thought was telling me that finally the guys on the bottom, those who identified with Palestinians, had made a powerful statement condemning those on the top-Americans and Israelis. It was murderous and primitive, but it was powerful. At last. In the moment I was still oddly removed emotionally from the human catastrophe that was being played out on the little screen. Thought was in its “historical” mode. There was only thought repeating over and over that what I was watching was blowback for half a century of U.S. policies regarding Israel and the Middle East, the centerpiece of which has been American support for the conquest of Palestine by European Jews. That an open debate on the Holocaust story would have destroyed the image of the unique monstrosity of the Germans, thus the “moral duty” of the U.S. Congress to fund the subjugation and humiliation of Palestinians for half a century. It was more complicated than that, but that was at the heart of the drama.

I watched American and Mexican news broadcasts the rest of the day. On Mexican television the connection between Palestinians and Israel and America came up very quickly. Not on American television. On American television it was as if the attack against America had come out of the blue, a lightening bolt from some evil god. It was a given for American journalists and the politicos they interviewed that Islamic radicals were the most likely perpetrators, and while Osama Bin Laden was mentioned again and again, no American journalist or government spokesman asked why or mentioned Israel. Why would any Arab want to commit such an atrocity against American civilians? No one wanted to mention the Israeli connection. No one was willing to ask why?

That first evening at dusk I went out walking on the Boulevard as I usually do. The broken sidewalks, the taco stands with the mangy dogs hanging around, the oil-soaked little auto repair shops, the men still working under naked light bulbs. Inwardly I was flooded with the drama of the World Trade Center. I was still removed emotionally from the tragedy. I was in something of a trance-the mind filled by the images of the utter destruction of the immense buildings, the awareness that a great historical event had happened in America that very day.

We have known for years that sooner or later some Arab with a grudge and a plan would walk into Times Square with a suitcase carrying a nuclear bomb or some chemical or biological weapon. He wouldn’t be searching for the guilty, he’d already have made the decision to just kill everyone who happened to be on the island. He might be a young man whose family had been killed by American bombs, or whose village in Palestine had been erased from the face of the earth by our Israeli clients. Or maybe he would have watched his little sister in Iraq starve, or die from lack of medicine because of the American-inspired blockade of his country. Among Arabs, there is a surplus of reasons to have a grudge against America and our belligerent little friends in Israel.

As I walked along I kept seeing the Trade Towers explode in great clouds of fire and smoke and collapse in on themselves until on the television there was nothing left but a great pile of rubble. It was as if the picture of it were engraved my mind. It was dark now and after awhile I realized I was watching coconuts drop from palmed trees in bright sunlight. I could hear the nuts striking the ground. It was a moment before I realized that I was seeing something that wasn’t there. And then I understood I was watching the destruction of the Eighth District in Saigon in 1968. That July I had watched from the Y-bridge in Cholon as the Eighth District was leveled by American artillery and air strikes. The Viet Cong had returned after their setback at Tet and it was either go house to house to clear them out or take down the neighborhood. Being Americans, the decision was foreordained. Every building, every house in the Eighth District was leveled. I had gone along with a company of the 9th Infantry that afternoon to see if anything was still moving in the rubble. We didn’t find one body that still had life in it, and as we returned through the smoke, the intense heat and the complete silence, we passed three tall coconut trees where the coconuts were dropping one by one, and the sound they made as they fell into the rubble was the only sound left in the afternoon.

Walking along in the dark on the Boulevard I understood that thought, using its dumb-show of memory, was connecting the television images of the great pile of rubble that only that morning were the World Trade Towers, and the field of flattened rubble I had watched come down more than thirty years before where thousands of families had lived and worked and raised their children. Memory has its own way of thinking, juxtaposing one image against another, and if you are alert you might understand the drift of what it is trying to express. I suppose that what my own memory was expressing that night on the Boulevard is that American culture has become generically predisposed toward turning the cities of other people into rubble and now one terrible chicken had come home to roost.

On the third day after the attack-I think it was the third day-I was finally wrenched out of all the obsessive thinking, for a moment, by coming across a live television presentation where Billy Graham was preaching at the National Cathedral in Washington D.C. In the audience were most of the President’s men and many of his generals. Graham is an old man now, he cannot walk well, but he still preaches with a full strong voice. That morning he spoke directly to the President’s men, telling them that vengeance belongs to God, not to man, and he spoke of the “mystery of evil.” I had heard nothing but talk of war, retribution, and justice from the President on down. When I heard Graham preach that vengeance belongs not to man but to God, something opened up in me and from that moment on I began to feel the anguish of those who had lost family and friends in the attack. And then the anguish was with me, and remained with me, and made itself known again and again as I watched the images over and over on television and listened to the stories.

While I am not horrified at the thought of killing those who were directly responsible for killing three thousand Americans, I am not yet certain who the guilty parties are. For years Osama bin Laden passed his time encouraging Muslims to kill American crusaders and Israeli Jews. He appeared to revel in the fact that with the attack on the World Trade Center some Muslims had accomplished what he had encouraged them to do. I think he is certainly guilty of something. Among a civilized people, under the rule of law, that’s not good enough. Osama is innocent until proven guilty-not in the press, not in the Office of the President of the United States, but in a court of law. That’s the American way. That’s what we tell ourselves is the American way. We don’t want to take the assertions of our government at face value about who is guilty of what. We did that from the beginning to the end of the 20th century. The result was one monstrous disaster after another.

I don’t share in the rage that so many feel about the attack on the World Trade Center. I understand the “hopeless” rage of those who had family and friends murdered there, but the mass killing of innocents for the deeds of the guilty has been deeply embedded in U.S. foreign policy for a century now, beginning with the campaign in the Philippines. Osama referenced this fact publicly again and again-Germany, Japan, Vietnam, Iraq, Palestine. Revisionism has called my attention again and again to how we accept this fact of life, these double standards, so readily, and how we have no public shame and no public sense that we should start taking seriously the idea that we need to change our foreign policies and confront the moral and ethical double standards we have been living with, as a people, for so long.

With respect to killing the innocent for the acts of those who rule them, the Islamist radicals did nothing unusual. They represent an old established human tradition. They want to right what, from their point of view, are the injustices being carried out against “their” people. That’s what they all say. Hitler said it, Stalin said it, Mao, Roosevelt, Churchill, and Truman all said it. Pol Pot and Idi Amin said it. Even Che Guevarra and the pipsqueak Fidel Castro said it. They all were willing to intentionally kill the innocent for what they convinced themselves was a “higher good.” The people who did the World Trade Towers were unique only in that they represented no nation state, but an NGO, a non-governmental organization. You don’t have to have your own state any longer. Western technology has created a world in which NGOs can organize and kill the innocent on a scale that compares favorably to the ability of a State to intentionally kill the innocent. NGOs can use the same justifications the State uses. Their leaders can feel the same self-righteousness and peace of mind.

The Anti-Defamation League of B’nai B’rith (ADL) has named me one of the “Top Ten Extremists” in America. The ADL published the charge in a print booklet, and to make certain no one missed it, published it on the Internet as well. I’ve never been an extremist, while the extremists I have met think I’m a cupcake. I feel a little like one of those serial murderers listed on the FBI’s Most Wanted list-it’s nice to see my picture at the post office, but is it what I really want?

What do I do to be taken so seriously? I place advertisements in student newspapers. I ask for some back and forth on a historical issue. I encourage intellectual freedom-even with regard to the Holocaust question. Always with the cooperation of student editors, their business managers and faculty advisors. That makes me one of the top ten extremists-maybe one of the most dangerous men (there are no women on the list)-in the nation? What’s extremism coming to?

On the Internet the ADL Homepage for Extremism In America displays a photograph of the Oklahoma City Federal Building after it was bombed by Timothy McVeigh, et al. Is that what intellectual freedom leads to? The mass killing of civilians and their children? What kind of fundamentalist, authoritarian personalities would believe that? I believe intellectual freedom leads to a non-violent exchange of ideas, encourages communication among the citizenry, creates confidence in an open society, and illuminates the activities of government agencies and other special interest organizations, particularly those that have an agenda that is anti-democratic. But then-of course! That’s it!

The Anti-Defamation League does some good work, I’m not going to dismiss the League entirely. At the same time it is a leading ethno-centric, Jewish, special-interest organization that puts Zionist political and cultural issues before everything else, both here and in the Middle East. Among its many sins is that it has provided unwavering support for the humiliation and brutalization of Palestinians by the Israeli Government for half a century and lobbied American politicos-successfully-to do the same.

The one common thread among nine out of the ten of those on the ADL’s Top Ten list of Extremists in America is that they are all involved with the White racialist movement. I’m the one exception, but I made the list anyhow. What a guy! How did I pull it off? I have never been a member of a racialist organization. I have never written on racial issues. And then there is what may be called a small irony-my family is Mexican, my children are Mexican, and most of my friends are Mexican. Why is CODOH and Smith on the list then?

This is a no-brainer. Those who manage the Holocaust Industry, and the ADL is in the top management tier of this peculiar business, exploit the premise that anyone who encourages intellectual freedom with regard to the Holocaust question hates Jews. One explanation for this moronic idea is that it is a sickly way of reacting to those who express skepticism about what you happen to believe. A second is that the Industry is saturated with greed and lust for authority. There you have it. I’m one of the top ten extremists in America because I make the simple observation that in one respect the Holocaust story is like every other war story-some of it’s true, some of it isn’t-and I argue that the time is come to separate the wheat from the chaff.

When I believed the gas chamber stories the Jews I knew thought I was a swell guy. When I changed my mind about them I become an apostate. I had betrayed a political-religious cult to which, while I had never been a member, I had looked upon with favor. Those dedicated to the cult believed the story was written in stone. I had doubted that God wrote His Ten Commandments in stone and gave them to Moses but that was okay. The Jews I knew didn’t believe that story either. But they all believed the gas-chamber stories, and they all believed those stories were written in stone.

Some began to see me as their enemy. Those who were already working in the Holocaust Industry felt they had an obligation to shut me up-to keep me off radio, suppress my writings, refuse me the right to buy space in student newspapers, close down my Website. Some even felt it necessary to threaten to kill me, to threaten to murder my children. Those who wanted to kill the kids-they didn’t know what they were getting into. They didn’t know my kids are Mexican. They would have committed a “hate” crime. Their asses would have been mud. Now that they know, I’m no longer getting those kinds of threats. Maybe it’s coincidence.

What exactly is an extremist? One who goes fartherest from the center. For example, one who believes absolutely that an all-knowing God exists-or one who believes absolutely that no such god exists. For myself, I understand that I know nothing whatever about the matter, and when I’m at my best I have no opinion about it. It’s the same with the “gassing chambers.” I’m skeptical. I see no adequate evidence that they existed, and no absolute proof that they did not. One can have a rational viewpoint about gassing chambers, however, based on available physical and documentary evidence. I don’t see myself as an extremist then-as one who goes fartherest from the center-but as a skeptic. I’m one, in the broad sense of that word, who is in the center of an issue that is in the hands of true believers-that is, extremists.

But that’s old news now. Americans have discovered what extremism really is. After 11 September, when Islamic radicals made their views known about the foreign policies of the United States of America, my importance as a “top ten” extremist became very small potatoes indeed. The media pundits and the President are in agreement-America will never again be the same. For one thing, Americans are going to start putting behind them the Jewish “Holocaust” Americans watched their own “holocaust” take place on their own television screens. This holocaust is not like the “gas-chamber” holocaust. Americans know this one happened, and they know what happened.

We know the airplanes actually existed. We know that the World Trade Towers existed. We know the airplanes really did crash into the Towers. There really were great fiery explosions. Immense columns of smoke really did lift up into the heavens. There were hundreds if not thousands of “eyewitnesses” to the same specific event. People really did jump from windows eighty and a hundred floors above the ground. The towers really did fall down. Are there going to appear “deniers” now who will try to dismiss the destruction of the World Trade Center as a hoax? Will they try to “revise” the story, claiming that the planes missed their mark? That the towers did not really collapse but are still standing? That there really was no deliberate plan to kill the people in the towers? Not likely. Very different from the “gas-chamber” stories-or don’t you think so?

An Independent Television Network article titled “Website confronts the Net Nazis” tells us that the government of Great Britain is getting into the anti-Holocaust-revisionist business on the Internet. It will begin to celebrate “Holocaust Memorial Day” each year on 27 January, the day the German camp at Auschwitz was liberated by those governed by the Allied tyrant and mass-murderer, Josef Stalin. There is something particularly appropriate about this. The news story has an interesting sub theme that I would not have expected.

Home Secretary Jack Straw’s decision to use the Internet as a platform to promote Britain’s first Holocaust Memorial Day has significance far beyond the web’s use as a global message board … [The Web is] a useful tool for those who want to deny the Holocaust or promote virulent anti-Semitism. [One] site regarded as particularly pernicious by the Israeli authorities is the Committee for Open Debate on the Holocaust (CODOH)….

“Israeli authorities?” “Particularly pernicious?” This is getting serious. Which Israeli authorities? The author of the article is not identified. No specific Israeli authority is identified. Thought turns immediately to the Israeli Mossad. International assassins feared the world over. Should I leave my light on at night? Would it do me any good? The record suggests that if the Mossad decides it wants me, they’ll have me for breakfast. I don’t think they want me very badly or I’d already be gone. Still, you don’t want to get on the wrong side of the Israeli authorities. Unlike myself, they can do two or more things at once. They can move forward with settling Jewish religious fanatics on Palestinian land, shoot those Palestinians who protest, and take care of someone like me all at the same time.

If this ITN journalist knows what he’s talking about, Israeli authorities believe that CODOH might cause irreparably destructive (pernicious) damage to-what? Well, the reputation of the Jewish Holocaust story. The story that legitimizes whatever Israeli Jews want to do to Palestinian Arabs and anyone else they want to do something to, and legitimizes the policy of the U.S. Congress to fund it all from beginning to end. If Israeli sharpshooters do not have a morally legitimate reason to shoot Palestinian kids through the eye, it would make Israeli Jews look bad. But they do have a legitimate excuse to shoot and bomb and displace any Palestinian they choose. Half a century ago Germans Holocausted Jews in “gassing chambers.” That’s why, today, Israeli Jews can do what they want to whomever they want. The logic is clear. The whole world can see that it’s legitimate. But if the gas-chamber stories are brought into question-what then?

An associate asks what I get out of doing revisionism. Don’t I get dispirited? It’s hard work, there’s no money, and all the best people hold you in contempt. I don’t get dispirited. I don’t know why. There must be something missing in my character. I think it has to do with the fact that I am not focused on winning, on the future. I appear to be interested in the daily round. The process. I noticed this a long time ago. It’s not an accomplishment, it’s just the drift of my character.

So here I am, seventy-two years old, still up to my neck in work that few care about and many detest and fear. No savings, ten thousand dollars in debt, barely able to pay the bills. I don’t know why I stay at it. It’s what I do. I receive word that one old friend after another has sickened and died, or has simply fallen down dead, and I feel the whisper of anxiety about my own coming demise. I suppose I’m like most other old guys that way. When the day comes, I am not going to want to give up what I will have to give up, which is everything. I understand that once I give it up, afterwards I’m not going to miss it, but that doesn’t change how I feel. I feel about life the way the miser feels about his gold-I want to take it with me.

Fall is come again and the hour has changed and now when I go out walking in the evening it’s dark, and lonely, in a way that it’s never been before. For the first time in my life I want someone to walk with me when it’s dark. Not certain why. Sometimes I fall down, but that isn’t the reason. I just want someone with me. So far I haven’t broken anything. The other night I fell in the street only a block from the house and four Mexicans from four different points on the compass ran over to help me up.

Sometimes I stop at the little bar at Vicente’s fish restaurant. There’s standing room for three people at the bar. There’s one stool. One evening I was there drinking wine and reading Khema’s Being Nobody, Going Nowhere, which is a wonderful book for someone like me-a wonderful title anyhow-when a waitress came to the bar to order a drink. When she turned to take the drink to her table her long hair brushed across the back of my neck. It was soft and wispy and memory filled up with pictures of other women in other places in other times. I stopped reading and ordered another glass of wine. Memory recalled the images of women I haven’t seen in half a century but have never forgotten. I reminded myself to not have more than three glasses or I would risk breaking many bones before I got back to the house.

A Mexican came to the bar, ordered a beer, and we fell into conversation in English. He was thin and intense. I learned that he had grown up in the U.S., served twenty years in the U.S. army, but had not become a citizen. He was planning to sue the U.S. Government, specifically the Department of Justice, charging that it had planted a microchip in his body and that government agents use it to give him commands that he must obey. A couple years ago, when he was living in Yuma, government agents used their microchip to command him to shoot a Black guy who had been getting on his nerves. After the shooting he had been deported from the States and now he can’t go back.

It wasn’t that the U.S. Government had done something to him alone. The U.S. Government implants every baby born in America with a microchip. That’s how the government programs Americans to do what it wants. It’s a crime against humanity but no one has been willing to speak out. He will be the first. Local law enforcement agencies in the U.S. would not give him the time of day. He had to go straight to the top. He had already written to all the major law enforcement agencies in the United States about the microchips, including the U.S. Department of Justice, and while he had received a few replies he had the feeling that he was being strung along.

While he was still in America he had tried to get doctors at the Veteran’s Hospital to cat scan his whole body. He wanted the hospital administrators, along with his own eyewitnesses, to be there so that nothing would be covered up. The Veterans people would not cooperate. He went to mortuaries and asked permission to observe autopsies so that he could keep an eye out for the microchips. No mortuary would allow him to observe. They were all in on it. He decided he would make the ultimate sacrifice for Americans and for humankind. He would offer to kill himself if it were guaranteed that his autopsy would be monitored by the Department of Justice, televised by at least two networks, and observed by journalists representing six major dailies. What more could he do? He was waiting now for a reply from Justice.

I like a good story, and I know a good story when I hear one. I order another glass of wine, then another. I lose count. My new friend is willing to elaborate on his story for as long as I’m willing to drink. At ten o’clock the gods of time intervene and Vicente’s closes for the night. I pay the bill for the two of us and we part, promising to get together another time. Outside, the night is black and starry and at the same time the street is awash with the moon’s white light. I begin walking carefully along the dirt and broken-brick walks toward the house. I put my hands in my jacket pockets, then take them out again in case I fall. My heart is floating in some vast inner space. And thought says: “So then-it’s been the microchips all along!”

But of course! It’s always been the microchips. Habitual thought, commands to react to stimuli in specific ways, habits implanted in every individual by his culture, his nation, his family, his genes. President Bush had to bomb the Afghans because Islamist radicals attacked America because Americans killed Iraqi Arabs and funded Israeli Jews to kill Palestinian Arabs because Palestinians had not agreed to the conquest of their land and the destruction of their culture by European Jews despite the fact that at the beginning the United Nations and President Truman and the U.S. Congress had said it was okay because Germany had holocausted the Jews because Hitler didn’t like them because-well, he was part of the first axis of evil-so what choice did President Bush really have after what Hitler did to the Jews? He absolutely had to bomb the Afghans. What choice does he have now? He’s going to have to bomb somebody else. Bombing, blowback, and more bombing have become the fate of the American presidency.

Revisionist theory has addressed microchip thinking for five decades. Revisionists understood very early on that no good would come from the exploitation of a historical fraud that demonized Germans. That no good would come from exploiting that fraud to justify Jewish greed for Palestinian land, and then to demonize Palestinian Arabs who resisted their colonization. The U.S. Congress and its Jewish clients are going to have to get out of the phony, anti-evil thought-box that they have constructed for themselves, and start seeing each other as men and women who are wrong about almost everything, just like the rest of us.

Microchip thinking is only habit. We can choose to go with the habits that have been implanted in us by others, that we have adopted for ourselves, or we can choose to opt out of them one by one and face ourselves, and each other, as if for the first time, fresh and without preconception-that is, without memory. Memory, the subjective life, is where all the violence, brutality, greed and lust for revenge hang out. Memory is the tool that justifies all our crimes. Nobel Prize recipients laud memory. I think it’s time we begin to forget it. Beneath this black and star-filled night, awash with wine and white moonlight, I tell myself, once again, that I will try. I’ll try to let memory go and focus on what is right here, right now. It won’t be easy. I know, because I have tried many times and failed. I don’t fail every time I try, but I do fail most of the time.

End

 

 

 

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